Cielo, Tierra
by zsuzsi
Summary: Gryffindor Harry Potter's never been a coward. But a unique murder investigation -along with Draco Malfoy, the civilian assigned to help him solve it - has him reevaluating some of his most private decisions. EWE, H/D.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from it. I make no money from this story, it is purely a work of fan appreciation.

**Prologue**

It was almost like heaven.

Men were writhing, dancing, fit bodies turning, bending, coming up again – lights flashing, music with a good beat, dark and forward. The club was pure energy. If he went out onto the floor, those bodies would enfold and accept him – if he decided to turn back towards the bar instead, the people there would smile and buy him a drink. Somewhere near the back his friends were waiting, ready to slap him on the back, ask how his week had been – show off the latest new thing they had acquired, be it material or human. Everyone accepted him, and he was so grateful for that, it was something he never forgot.

The boy with the short blonde hair ran a quick hand over his scalp, not pushing the hairstyle into spikes, as he normally did, but rather pushing it down, trying to make it lie flat against his scalp – for a moment it made him look younger, tamer, even adolescent.

Things were only getting started, but he could come to heaven any time. Tonight might be his only chance to re-connect with – well, the real world – the one he always felt for, with his fingertips, first thing when he woke up in the morning, when his hands inched across his bedside table looking for his wand.

The young wizard who had left the magical world behind, made his way back towards the entrance of the club. He took his coat from the attendant, slipping the muggle garment over his shoulders with an ease he didn't even think of anymore, flipping his collar up to prevent the snow that fell thickly from making its way inside. He left the club behind him, and walked out into the night.

**ooo**

Harry knew it was a murder as soon as he entered Shacklebolt's office. He could tell from Shacklebolt's shoulders, which had a grim set to them, and the more than usually gloomy way in Shacklebolt nodded to Harry as he entered: without first saying hello, or asking how things were going. Shacklebolt looked stern, and there were fine lines around his eyes and mouth – he often looked that way when things were bad.

They both hated murder investigations, though perhaps for slightly different reasons. They both hated the crime, of course – both grieved for the victim and the victim's family. But Shacklebolt, Harry suspected, took murders as a sort of personal, professional failure – after all, the Auror's office, of which he was the head, had the task not only of catching criminals, but also of preventing such crimes in the first place.

Harry, for his part, hated murders because they represented the existence of something once good, or at least something once neutral, finally, incontrovertibly turning _wrong_, past the point of retrieval.

He was accustomed to evil, of course, from his childhood. His teenaged battles against Voldemort, in which he had sometimes been the pawn, sometimes the director, of his own actions, he now felt had been filled with a very rare kind of moral certainty: never had he doubted that his own cause was the good and the just one, worth dying for, if need be. He had never felt any uncertainty about the need to destroy Voldemort.

And, in his first few years with the Aurors, he had seen every new case set before him with much the same black and white clarity. Every new criminal had been a challenge, and a wrong for him to set right; each announcement of a crime to solve sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. Preferring excitement, he had actually been disappointed when, during quiet periods, he was tasked with confiscating dark teapots and sorting domestic disturbances.

But one day the criminal had been Jeremy Thigget.

Jeremy Thigget, a small Griffindor who had only attended meetings of Dumbledore's Army once or twice before his parents had pulled him from school in what would have been Harry's seventh year, was arrested by the aurors for raping a muggle girl, and then, in his panicked attempt to oblivate her, giving her brain damage. His eventual sentence was rather light, and his mother's petulant, soft whinging during his trial – _"well, she was only a muggle_", had set Harry's teeth on edge.

But he had remembered as well that Jeremy was once been a small, rather funny boy, always hopefully trying to fit in. His ears were very large and he'd always gotten some teasing over that, until eventually his parents had taken him to someone who had permanently modified them.

It was not the thought that there were ultimately good and ultimately evil people in the world that was frightening to Harry. It was the thought that a good person could be lost - could become evil.

A murder was like that. A murder meant that something had been irreparably broken. One could go out and arrest the culprit, perhaps stop them from doing something terrible a second time. But it wasn't possible to put anything right again.

He sat down before Shacklebolt's desk and waited.

"I've got a case for you." Shacklebolt put the manila folder in front of Harry, and waited as Harry pulled it forward and began leafing through the information: an auror's report from earlier in the day, paper-clipped in front of a series of reports from the London Metropolitan Police. This was standard procedure: there were always one or two aurors on MET duty, assigned to keep an eye out for any cases with possible magical involvement, and, whenever one appeared, erase the necessary evidence, and transfer the work over to Shacklebolt's office. Harry had done that shift for six months with Ron, and he had found it to be quite an enjoyable foray into muggle culture.

The victim was young – nineteen, according to the papers supplied. The picture that had been attached was probably from a few years earlier, as he was in a Hogwart's uniform – Ravenclaw, from the colors. He was the type of teenage boy one often sees, at fifteen or sixteen, with too-large hands and feet, tripping over their own feet or awkwardly folding themselves into chairs that suddenly seem too small. In the photo, he was leaning over a desk, laughing at someone just outside the frame of the shot. Then he looked over, apparently surprised, at the person holding the camera, and made a face, before the photo reset itself.

"Timothy Wandsworth," Shacklebolt said, in the same moment as Harry read the name in front of him. "He was found two nights ago, dead outside of a muggle establishment – apparently a homosexual meeting place." Harry listened with interest how carefully Shacklebolt made this pronouncement, without any emotional intonation at all, where most people would have been hard-pressed not to add a thin layer of disgust or a nervous tremor to their voices. Aurors became like doctors – they had seen all parts of human nature, and very little of it surprised them anymore.

"He had been living apart from his parents for the past two and a half years. During his sixth year in Hogwarts, apparently, they had a falling-out over his sexuality –he left school – and was out of contact with them ever since. You will need to do a more through follow-up with them, of course. Margot and Hugo Wandsworth – they live in Hogsmead village."

Harry flipped to a second photo, which showed another Timothy, this time eleven or twelve, beaming excitedly as he stood in front of one of Hogsmead's typical thatched cottages while his father presented him with a small owl in a golden cage.

"Cause of death?" He asked briskly.

Shacklebolt frowned. "We don't know yet, exactly. The muggles thought it was a knifing, before we obliviated them, but then, muggle opinion in this case is hardly relevant. The body has been sent to the St. Mungo's morgue, where Mediwizard Dwindles will, of course, do the forensics for us."

"Wizards do get stabbed, from time to time, sir," Harry felt obligated to point out. "Especially wizard-raised ones, who tend to think muggles aren't a danger."

Shacklebolt shrugged ponderously. "That's true, but in those cases the MET Auror on duty doesn't usually detect traces of magic on the corpse when it's recovered."

"Oh." Harry said. "Another wizard, then."

"Yes." Shacklebolt waited as Harry continued to look through the dossier.

"Ron is on leave," Harry said. "Would you like me to handle this one on my own, then?"

Shacklebolt paused. Deliberately, he brought his two hands together in front of him, joining his fingertips.

"It seems that the kinds of muggle places that Timothy was frequently are not easy places for a stranger to gain entry too. And because of his sexuality, we must not discount the possibility that this was a hate crime." Shacklebolt drew a breath, and stared at Harry. It occurred to Harry that the gesture, which appeared intimidating, was actually a sign of Shacklebolt's nervousness or discomfort.

"There is another wizard…" Shacklebolt said, "that I would like you to work with. He is not an auror, but will act as a consultant on this case. He may be able to help you make contact with Wandsworth's muggle acquaintances, for instance, or perhaps advise you how to behave among them without raising suspicions.

"An expert on muggles?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows. Shacklebolt frowned very slightly.

"Yes, you might say that." He took a card from his robe pocket and handed it carefully across the table to Harry.

The script was gold and ornate, on heavy cream-colored paper. Harry, who had become skilled after the war in deciphering business cards, categorized it almost instantly as coming from someone pretentious, or pureblooded.

'Draco Malfoy', the card read, simply, and listed an address below. When Harry pressed the card with his thumb, it repeated the name and instructions in a sonorous voice.

Harry felt his jaw dropping open. It was imperative to say something to Shacklebolt quickly, to explain that it was quite impossible, but to his dismay he saw that the large man across from him was already rising, and gesturing towards Harry.

"Very good, Potter," He rumbled. "You will be a professional about this, I'm sure."

"Yes, but," Harry said. He rose, stumbling blinding forward as Shacklebolt opened the door.

"Start with the Wandsworths," Shacklebolt said, pushing Harry very gently out into the hallway. "I recommend you set up a meeting with Mr. Malfoy this afternoon, and then try to find a time and talk to the family as soon as possible."

"Yes, but…no, Kingsley, wait a moment,"

"Do your best to work with him, Harry," And with that, Shacklebolt closed the door, quietly but firmly, in Harry's rather startled face.


	2. Chapter 1

Harry spent an hour going over the materials gathered by the MET team, and another twenty minutes flooing the Wandsworths to arrange a meeting at their earliest convenience. Then, with very little else that he could think of to do to legitimately put off finding Malfoy, he withdrew from his pocket the card that Shacklebolt had given him earlier, and stared at it.

The only saving grace of the card was that the address inscribed on it was not Malfoy Manor: as the one thing more awful than an appointment with Draco Malfoy would have been an unexpected run-in with one of his parents. Harry noted, however, that the address on the card had changed since earlier in the morning, and realized that it merely reflected Malfoy's current location whenever he was free for a meeting: a bit like a focused Marauder's map, only with the aggravating effect of making Harry feel that he was being forced to run after Malfoy like an errand boy. He felt that he would much prefer to tell Malfoy to come to him for a meeting, as that would put the ball more in Harry's court. However, that would waste time. Harry sighed. The script on the card wavered a second time as he was putting on his outer winter robes, and then reformed as an address that Harry recognized as being on a side-street off Diagon Alley.

He apparated to the head of the street and peered down it. It was a tiny little lane: an alley, practically, of the sort often seen in wizarding places – filled with gray cobblestones and buildings that looked as though they came from a century earlier – always narrower and more twisted, somehow, than the muggle streets they often ran alongside. The address was only the second establishment from the intersection – a very exclusive restaurant that Harry only recognized because Ron had taken Hermione there a few months before, to celebrate her pregnancy. He remembered Ron saying then that being a war hero had at least a few benefits, and that one was being able to get last-minute reservations to a place as exclusive as El Basilisco de Oro.

Harry hated such places. They were pretentious, first of all, and with his middle-class muggle background he felt out of place in them. He reminded himself that it was for a case, squared his shoulders, and marched up the steps, where a uniformed doorman ushered him in.

At least El Basilisco was too fancy of a place for anyone to react too embarrassingly to his presence. The interior was all polished wood and plush fire-red velvet. The lilac-robed hostess merely looked into his face blandly and said, "Mr. Potter, table for…?"

"I'm looking for someone," Harry said, and handed her the card. He watched the quick flicker of interest in her face, quickly suppressed. "He's not expecting me, but would it be all right if I dropped in on him?"

The waitress paused, and asked for a minute while she went to see if Mr. Malfoy was free. When she returned, she was smiling.

He followed her as she turned and glided elegantly towards the back of the restaurant. The ends of her robe separated into several petal-shaped folds, which wafted around her ankles with the effect of a flower in the breeze. Harry was enough distracted by this neat trick that he almost did not noticing the stairway that led up to a second level until his feet tripped over it.

Draco Malfoy was recognizable to Harry as soon as he came up the stairs. He was sitting at a table in the back of the dining room, right next to the balcony. There was a lavish spread of food in front of him, but he was not eating. His body was clad in fine gray robes and he had twisted his body around so that he was leaning over the balcony, looking out over the main dining room, his head resting in his thin, white hands. In the rarified atmosphere of El Basilisco, where most wizards and witches were carefully displaying their best manners, Malfoy looked as graceful and relaxed as a cat lounging on the radiator.

He seemed not to notice Harry as he approached the table, implying perhaps that the privacy charms in place were bi-directional, but then the waitress cleared her throat and he made gesture with his hand, rather impatient, that she took as a signal to glide off again, and Harry took as a sign to sit down. Only fifteen seconds into his first interaction with Malfoy in five years, and he was already feeling quite as annoyed as he had when they were eleven.

"Well, Harry Potter," Malfoy said, biting the words out, as he finally slid around to face him. "What brings you here?" A waiter appeared, hovering annoyingly just at the edge of Harry's vision.

"Something to drink, sir?"

"Just water, thanks," Harry said. He looked at Malfoy. It had been a while since he had seen the other man up close - he supposed (though he had never consciously considered it before) that they tended to skirt each other's presence. Malfoy looked a little better than he had when he was young – he seemed more self-assured. Had Harry not known his history, he would have thought Malfoy played the role of the haughty young pureblood perfectly. As it was, however, he saw the slight tenseness in Malfoy's shoulders. He could not look at Malfoy without recalling the twitching boy, who, at the end of the war, had alternated between a parody of his obnoxious former confidence and flinching at shadows.

"Didn't Shacklebolt warn you I'd be coming?" He said abruptly.

Malfoy looked rather dark. "Shacklebolt told me _someone_ might be coming."

"Oh." Harry wondered why Shacklebolt, who apparently knew enough of Harry and Malfoy's enmity to neglect to mention to Malfoy the name of his contact, would have decided to force them to work together anyway. Perhaps he thought that their dislike of each other simply wasn't that serious –though Harry might have debated that. Although he and Malfoy had never had any run-ins with each other since the war, the things they had once done to each other were far more serious than the sort of events that fueled a normal disagreement between schoolboys.

Malfoy must have been thinking somewhat parallel thoughts, because he got a strange expression on his face, just for a moment. Then he seemed to think better of saying anything, because his face cleared and became blandly neutral. He stayed silent, looking toward Harry as if waiting for him to explain.

Harry ground his teeth, and considered childishly not responding either, trying to wait Malfoy out. But there were larger things at stake. "I'm investigating a murder," he said, finally. "Kingsley Shacklebolt has informed me that you'll be acting as a consultant on the case." He crossed his arms. "Is that right?"

Malfoy blinked. Harry might almost have thought he had been taken aback. Appearing thoughtful, Malfoy turned his plate around, picked up his fork, and stabbed a bit of beef. Harry waited while Malfoy ate this slowly, and then, putting his form and knife down as ritualistically as he had lifted them, daubed at his lips delicately with a napkin. "If that's what Head Auror Shacklebolt said, it must be correct."

Harry waited. Malfoy ate a little bit more, and then he put his silverware down again.

"Listen, Potter, I'm sure I don't know much more than you do. I owe Shacklebolt a favor, that's all, and he seems to have decided that now is the time to call it in. Why don't you tell me a little bit more about the crime?"

Harry frowned. He absolutely could not think why Shacklebolt had thought to saddle him with Malfoy. He was irritating beyond belief. Sighing, he reached into his robe pocket, took out the dossier he had earlier miniaturized, and passed it over. Malfoy rearranged some glasses and silverware beside him, opened the folder, and seemed to begin studying its contents carefully.

Harry watched as Malfoy's thin lips pursed over the photos of Wandsworth, and the brief impersonal lines about his background and end. He wondered whether Malfoy was delighted, like a gossip, to being privy to the classified information, or whether he felt the same uneasy sense of shame as Harry often did when learning the details of a victim's life and death. Malfoy read for a good ten minutes, and then he tapped the papers with his index finger.

"Will there be more time to read this more closely, later?"

Harry shrugged. "You can make a copy, if you like."

"Please." Malfoy sliced neatly into his steak. Harry, sipping his water, felt vaguely resentful that Malfoy was forcing him to waste his time, and was just about to say something to that effect when a swirl of pale turquoise coming flying toward them distracted his attention.

"Draco, Darling!" The witch that was suddenly launching herself at Draco must be someone important, Harry figured, to be in that part of the restaurant at all. Besides, Malfoy did not look too upset to see her, as his expression quickly arranged itself into same smugness that Harry remembered seeing in his school days, at the Winter's Ball when Malfoy had escorted Pansy Parkinson around. This witch was younger than either of them, though – she looked barely a year out of Hogwarts. Her blonde hair fell in perfect ringlets down her back, and they bounced as she threw her arms around Malfoy's shoulders. After tucking her head under Malfoy's chin, she cast a coy glance in Harry's direction, as if only finally noticing him.

"Draco, darling, aren't you going to introduce me?"

Malfoy chuckled as if he was amused, and gently unwrapped her arms from his shoulder. "Astoria, when do you ever need any introduction?"

Astoria, Harry thought. The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't think from where. Perhaps it was someone Ginny or Hermione had talked about.

"Very true," Astoria said, as if she was pleased by the remark –though Harry couldn't tell if it had been an insult or a compliment. Gracefully she reached a long, perfectly manicured hand over to Harry. "Astoria Greengrass."

Harry took the hand, and shook it – a little awkwardly, as he was still sitting at the table. "Harry Potter," he said.

"Of course I know," Astoria giggled.

"Astoria is teasing you," Malfoy said indulgently. "If you were a pureblood, you would have stood up as I'd introduced you, and kissed her cheek."

"You didn't," Harry retorted, although he knew it was childish.

"Well," Malfoy responded seriously, "Astoria and I are very old friends."

"We used to play together in the miniature garden at Malfoy Manor," Astoria said, "When Draco was seven, and I was three."

"Is that so?" Harry asked, rather weakly. He wondered how he had suddenly got himself into the apparent situation of discussing Draco Malfoy's relationship, and wondered how he might extricate himself from it.

Luckily Malfoy managed it for him, leaning over in such a way that Astoria was forced to take her weight off of him and stand up. "I'm so sorry, darling, but Mr. Potter and I are having a meeting just at the moment. I'll floo around later, all right?"

"Don't forget." Astoria pouted prettily for a minute, and then thrust out her hand again. "Mr. Potter, it was very pleasant to make your acquaintance."

Rather suspiciously, Harry took her hand and shook it again. Astoria let out a lovely peal of laughter, and floated away again.

Malfoy looked after her fondly. "Lovely girl," he said. "Almost more spoiled than I was, at that age, if such a thing is even possible."

"You two make an adorable couple," Harry said, very, very dryly. But Malfoy looked almost alarmed for an instant.

"Astoria and I are just good friends," he said. "Potter, remind me again, exactly how much did Shacklebolt tell you about me?"

Harry shrugged. "Just what I told you – that you were a sort of muggle-expert-" he couldn't refrain from snorting a little bit-, "and that he wanted me to bring you along on the investigation."

"Of course," Malfoy waved grandly – a gesture that Harry thought for a moment was purely histrionic, until the waiter reappeared to clear his plates away. "Well, O Great Auror, I, being a civilian, am entirely uninformed. How does one go about beginning such an investigation?"

Harry cleared his throat. He had been thinking this over all morning. "Well, there are a few things to look into. I'll be heading over to St. Mungo's this afternoon, to find out the results of the autopsy… I also need to visit the scene of the crime, the family," he considered: his best strategy, he imagined, was to make it clear that the work was terribly boring, really, and that he didn't expect Malfoy's presence for all of it. Having Malfoy around would only be an annoyance and a distraction from the task at hand. "Of course I understand if you have prior commitments." He said.

"No trouble," Malfoy said, decidedly. "I am free."

"Oh." Harry tried not to be disappointed. "Well, besides those things we'll have to begin interviews with the victim's other acquaintances – in his case there will be both muggles and wizards, I believe. I'm hoping that his parents will have addresses for at least a few…"

"Don't worry about that," Malfoy interrupted. "I think that I may have a few ideas about that as well."

"Really?" Harry's eyebrows shot up, but he controlled himself. So Malfoy was gay, he thought, he must be. Otherwise why would Shacklebolt had mentioned him as a partner, and why would Malfoy have ideas about how to contact Wandsworth's gay, muggle friends?

He felt the redness creeping up his neck. So Malfoy was _gay_… or at least bisexual. Going out to muggle places, as Harry himself had, from time to time, considered doing...

He must have been making an odd expression, for he realized that Malfoy was looking at him rather strangely. Harry shut his mouth with a snap, straightened in his chair, returning to professionalism.

"Fine," he said. "I'll see you at three, then, in the coroner's office at St. Mungo's."

Malfoy nodded, dismissive.

Harry left that rather unusual lunch meeting with his stomach growling – his own foolishness for not eating when he had the chance, but then, he could scarcely have been expected to eat his lunch with Malfoy – or at the Basilisco. He found himself walking too quickly, and feeling annoyed at the young couple who blocked his path for a moment as they walked down Diagon Alley together hand in hand, Draco Malfoy had put him into such a bad mood.

But really, Malfoy was such a… he was awful. One would think that one couldn't go through what Malfoy had during the war and not learned something, changed a little for the better, but his response to all that had happened seemed to have been blatant denial – if anything, he seemed to have become a caricature of an arrogant, obnoxious pureblood even more than before. It was irritating to think of him, sitting with the pretty Astoria – whatever she was to him – was he even attracted to her…?-

Harry caught himself. Somehow without noticing he had wandered back into muggle territory: that was how worked up he had made himself. He sighed, it was no matter. He grabbed a quick sandwich from a Prêt-a-Porter, and then found a quite alley where he could apparate to the coordinates of the crime scheme, including in the information compiled by the MET Auror.

It was on a side street just off a busy thouroughfare. The apparition coordinates landed him right behind a dumpster, which was, although well hidden as an apparition point in Central London should be, still not, Harry thought, necessarily the best-thought out place it could have been located. He did a quick transfiguration of his auror's robe to a long tweed coat, and stepped from behind the dumpster rather gingerly.

With a moment's work, he identified Cielo, the club that Wandsworth had apparently visited the night he died. At this time of day, it was closed. There was little to identify it –a small metal plate in the shape of a butterfly next to the door.

He cast some unobtrusive detection charms. From there, he traced a path away from the club toward the spot where Wandsworth had been killed.

The soft vibration of his wand identified the point. About four blocks away from the club there was a small park – the type of place around which a wizard might cast a quiet Notice-Me-Not if they wished some privacy.

The MET Auror had probably already cast some basic detection spells, but Harry recast them anyway. The magic that could be sensed over the previous night was muffled, however, already dissipated. He sighed, and tried a slightly stronger spell, but it seemed that the one who had killed Wandsworth had been shrewd enough, at least, to put down some charms before he cast the killing blow, that would destroy the traces of magic used.

He ground his teeth. At least that meant one thing – whoever Wandsworth met that night, they might easily have walked to the little park in order to discuss things privately. But someone who had only come to talk, and had killed Wandsworth in a fit of rage, would not have seeded the park with such charms in advance.

No, whoever it was had planned to kill the boy in advance of meeting him… the crime had been premeditated.

***

Mediwizard Dwindles, the coroner, had his offices in the basement. At St. Mungo's, this meant smooth gray rock, every bit as dark and moldy as the dungeons of Hogwarts. Harry went down the three flights of stairs to the morgue carefully, for he had lost his footing more than once on the slick steps.

Though the stair and the hall leading towards the morgue were as dark as the inside of a glove, once Harry pushed open the swinging doors of the morgue he was suddenly in a place, that, while not exactly inviting, was bright, well-lit with the kind of sterile light that one normally associated with offices in the muggle world. A figure in a white mediwizard's green robes wearing a muggle surgical mask, and Harry recognized him as Dwindles by the tall thin form, along with the fact that no-one was ever found in the morgue except Dwindles anyway. The man looked up from his work over a surgical table when Harry came in, and waved cheerfully. Harry nodded back, only a bit wary. In front of the examining area was a small office space, separated from the rest of the room by glass. It was crammed full with a desk and a mountain of books and papers. This was where Harry preferred to stay, when he could – whenever going in wouldn't add anything to the case – and now he hung back until Dwindles snapped off his latex gloves and came over to talk to him.

Dwindles was an unusual type of wizard: that was undeniable. Harry did not exactly like him, but yet he did not dislike him either. Dwindles just unnerved him a little, in the similar way to that, as a child, Luna Lovegood had. He was strange. Although he was still young, he lived like a recluse, spending his days deep under the hospital, with his books and his bodies and his strange theories. He seemed perfectly happy like this. He never appeared lonely, though Harry suspected that hardly anyone ever called on his socially. When Harry came down, Dwindles chattered like a happy schoolboy about some interesting aspects of the case at hand – or about the latest muggle invention which he had attempted to adopt – for Dwindles was, like Mr. Weasley, perpetually interested in muggle things, though, unlike Mr. Weasley, only in those that he thought might be adopted to his own work – but, once that subject was exhausted, tended to drift back to his work again, as if he had lost interest in his guest.

It was rumored that Dwindles had become a coroner when, midway through his mediwizard's training, he had made the mistake of informing an elderly witch that she was going to die so bluntly that her family had decided to sue the hospital. After this event, he had been taken aside by the administrator of the institution, who had informed him that, although he did indeed believe Dwindles was brilliant, perhaps patient care was simply not his true calling.

Before his installation in the St. Mungo's basement a few years ago, Harry understood that magical post-mortems had been logistical nightmares to undertake. Arranging one had required that the Head Auror send a request to the head healer, who, in turn had usually assigned some other senior healer to look into the case, who in turn had assigned a subordinate –the simple truth was that most of the Healers at St. Mungo's were overworked, and preferred to operate upon the living. It had become such a nightmare for the Aurors Department that it had agreed to pay half the cost of Dwindles' salary when the new position was created.

The arrangement had worked perfectly. Even now, Harry caught the slightly mad glimmer in Dwindles' eye that indicted that the man had been working for too many hours on end, perhaps since the MET Aurors had brought in Wandsworth's corpse in the middle of the night before. The more amazing thing was that Harry didn't think Dwindles maintained his long hours or intense concentration through potions, as most would have –it seemed to be his natural instinct to latch on very strongly whenever a case interested him.

Behind Dwindle's sticklike form, Harry could see, upon an operating table, the outline of what must be Timothy Wandsworth's body, covered respectfully by a sheet. Dwindings was unlike many healers and mediwizards in that he was not adverse to performing physical autopsies, when absolutely necessary, but these were always accompanied by magical autopsies – that is, the study of those magics that had effected the body immediately before the time of death – which were usually not invasive.

"It's an interesting case," Dwindles said, sounding just a bit more pleased than one normally would about a dead body. "A spell, one you may recognize. Would you like to take a look?"

Harry frowned, but said that yes, he supposed he would. He slipped an ever-sterile robe over his work clothing, and allowed Dwindles led him over to the body, and, thankfully, did not even need to pull the sheet down, but simply tapped the place below which lay the corpse's head with his wand.

A faint green blur of light appeared. It began at Wandsworth's chest, just above his heart, and then zagged upwards about seven inches, before turning and darting downward again. It made a quick diagonal turn about Wandsworth's stomach, where the green light finally halted its mad path and began to pool, like blood, until Dwindles waved his wand and it disappeared.

"The color implies something dark," Dwindles said. "Not actually _very_ strong magic, I think, but what classifies a spell as dark is usually the motive, and this one was definitely cast with the intent to kill. It cuts, you see, and it was cast specifically to target the internal organs."

Harry felt his breath catch. For an instant, a blond boy was bleeding to death on the bathroom floor, as Moaning Myrtle wailed somewhere. But his vision was broken, abruptly, by the sound of a door slamming behind him.

Both Harry and Dwindles turned. Harry was struck by the realization that that same blond he had just been remembering was now grown, had just entered Dwindles office, and was advancing on Harry, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"Were you going to tell me that this office was in the basement, Potter? Or was I just meant to stumble all over St. Mungo's while you laughed?"

Harry blinked. Dwindlings saw that his sterile environment was about to be contaminated, and rushed forward to provide Malfoy with laboratory robes.

"Excuse me," Harry said to Malfoy. "I really didn't think of it. I forgot that this place is such a maze, I've been so many times now." He really was genuinely- well, not sorry, but he hadn't done it on purpose either. He was still distracted by the thought of the spell that had killed Timothy Wandsworth, and so his eye moved furtively towards the point just above where Malfoy's collar closed, and wrenched his gaze back towards the man's face.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in an expression of supreme disbelief. He allowed Dwindles to slip a sterile robe around him.

"Well," he said, "continue."

Harry snorted in irritation, but refused to rise to the bait. Dwindles, who seemed, if anything, pleased by Malfoy's authoritative tone, resumed his narrative in a flood of words.

"We were just discussing the spell," he said. "Yes, a spell to harm your enemies. The wounds apparently resemble those of a stabbing– the boy died from internal bleeding. Callidus Cultus, I think, or Pectus Penitralis." He gave Malfoy a vaguely watery glance. "Are you familiar with those, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy frowned. "Death Eater spells," he said, shortly.

Harry was distracted – so, it was not the Septumsempra after all. "I've never heard of either of those."

"That's not surprising," Dwindles said, after a pause. "It's not the sort of thing they teach at Hogwarts. They can be found in the Ministry's Restricted Library… or some old families might know them."

Harry looked at Malfoy. "Do you," He said sarcastically, "Know any families that teach their children spells like that?"

Malfoy looked angry, and Harry felt pleased at having gotten a rise out of him. "No." He said, shortly.

"No…?" Harry asked. "But, are you sure…?"

Malfoy stayed silent.

Harry shrugged. Of course Malfoy would know families that kept such dark spells in their family spell-books. Those old families stuck together, even now.

"So," he said, "We are looking for someone familiar with dark spells- those that were used by Death Eaters during the Voldemort war. I don't know," he smiled at Draco, "how we will get started."

Draco frowned but did not answer. Perhaps he was refusing to allow himself to be goaded.

They spoke a bit more about the preparations for the body (Dwindles hoped to pursued the victim's family to donate the body of their loved one for magical research, and Harry was hard-pressed to explain the delicacy of the situation to him.) and then, his business completed, Harry left the coroner's office and walked up the winding dungeon stairs back to the upper floors of St. Mungo's, finally stepping out the main entrance, blinking, into the sunlight. Although Harry had not invited him, Malfoy was still on his heels.

He turned to Malfoy abruptly. "I'm going back to the office for now," he said stiffly. "Tomorrow I'll visit the the Wandsworths. You're welcome to join me, but of course if you would rather not…"

Malfoy simply shrugged.

"You're coming, then?" Harry said, a bit sharply.

"I suppose so."

Harry wondered vaguely what sort of a hold Shacklebolt must have on Malfoy to make him so accommodating.

He returned to the Ministry to finish up some paperwork and then, at seven, he headed to Ron and Hermione's. From an outsider's perspective, it might have looked a bit peculiar – perhaps a bit like charity – that Ron and Hermione, a newly-married couple with a baby on the way, had their single friend over to dinner at least two and frequently more times a week. Of course it was not. After all they had been through together, Ron and Hermione's home was as much his as theirs: in the true sense that a home was a place filled by family, those people who would love you unconditionally and never desert you.

They lived in a cozy flat a few blocks from Diagon Alley – a popular area for young wizards these days, it was a Bohemian community which was probably about a quarter wizard and seventy-five percent muggle. The muggles, of course, probably thought their robe-clad neighbors were artistic, or perhaps members of religious sect – this being the middle of bustling, multi-cultural London, some quietly dispersed privacy charms had so far been enough to keep the number of magical sightings, and other such incidents, to a minimum.

By the time Harry reached the doorstep, it had already been dark out for over an hour. The air was perfect, clean, cold January air, and the snow that had fallen in the afternoon was more white than gray. In such weather, Harry's heavy Auror robes could be easily mistaken for an overcoat, and he felt little guilt about not changing into muggle clothing for the short walk over.

He let himself into their flat with his key, as was usual, and shouted out a "Hello" to let them know he had arrived.

"Harry!" Hermione called back, coming into the hall to greet him. "Is it true?" She asked him almost before she has closed the door behind him.

Harry stomped the last of the snow off the tops of his rubber boots before bending to pull them off, then tiptoed in his wool socks around the puddles surrounding the shoes by the mat, and allows Hermione to help him shrug off his heavy woolen overcoat. "No, is what true?"

The clock on the mantelpiece, a replica of Molly's own, chimed brightly as the hand with the name "Harry Potter" in gold cursive mechanically dropped into position, pointing towards the word "home". A quick glance could tell Harry that Ron hadn't made it back yet, and that the baby hadn't arrived yet: the small, still-un-inscribed hand pointed towards the word, "waiting".

He bent to give Hermione a hug, an awkward task around her huge, pregnant belly. She hugged him back and then took his hand and began pulling him towards the kitchen, where presumably wonderful things were cooking, as the air was thick with the aroma of nutmeg, cinnamon, and chocolate.

"Is it true that you're going to working with Draco Malfoy?"

Harry coughed frantically. "How on Earth do you know that?"

She waved her hand airly. "Nina in the secretarial pool overheard Shacklebolt saying something about it. Is it true, then?"

Harry nodded, rather helplessly. "Yes, it is. He'll be acting as a consultant on a murder investigation."

"Oh…." Hermione's voice trailed off thoughtfully. "Will you two be able to work together, do you think?"

Harry shrugged, and helped himself to a cup of coffee from their finicky magicked coffee maker, a wedding gift from Ron's father. "We'll have to, won't we? After all, it's a murder, and we aren't boys anymore." He sighed. "Still, based on our time spent together today, I can't say that I think it's going to be easy."

"Oh" Hermione pursed her lips and frowned. "Was he difficult?"

"Oh, he was sort of what I expected, smirking and supercilious."

"Yes, that sounds like him."

"And the oddest thing," Harry said, warming to his topic. "Is that Kingsley's saddled me with him because he thinks I need a muggle consultant. As if Draco Malfoy knew one thing in his life about muggles! More than I know!"

Hermione looked taken aback in spite of herself. "Yes, that does sound odd. Malfoy's been managing his family's investments for several years now… he comes by the Ministry fairly often, you know, so he's talked about, but I've never heard anything about him being knowledgable about muggles.."

"Some sort of favor he owes Shacklebolt, apparently. Anyway, Hermione, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something about the case, anyway."

He explained the case to her, in the briefest possible terms. Hermione didn't need to know the specifics, only the broadest picture, so that she would understand what information he was interested in. He knew that he explained things in a business-like manner, yet he still felt the ball of tension that developed in his stomach when he explained that Timothy had been gay. He knew as soon as he said it that Hermione had noticed it too, he saw so in the slight narrowing of her eyes. There had been that tension between them on the subject for some time now, every time appears when the word 'gay' comes up in conversation with her, no matter how casual or indirect the reference. Hermione tried to have an awkward discussion with him once before – three years ago, around the time he and Ginny finished – but he cut her off sharply then, and since then she has always been mature enough to respect that it was a forbidden topic with him.

But now he was the one broaching the topic, cautiously.

"Is it really such a serious thing, then?" He said. "To be gay in the wizarding world?"

"Well…. yes…," Hermione pretended to be thinking of other things – she tasted something from the pot she was boiling, frowned, and summoned the salt shaker forward. "It isn't for the same reasons that the muggles frown on it, though. Among muggles," Hermione caught herself of her verge of pontificating, and flashed her customary apologetic smile, "well, you know, it's all tied up in notions of religion and family. But among wizarding culture – well, take the WFA, for instance, it's the major group active at the moment. They have no religious agenda, and they don't disagree with the existence of homosexuality, per se. Rather it is acting out on that tendency which they are opposed to. They believe that an important goal of every wizard should be the continuation of the wizarding community in its most traditional form -that means marriage, and children, as many as possible, to counter-balance the influx of new witches and wizards coming in every year from muggle families." She fell silent for a minute then, and gathered her shawl around her shoulders. "It isn't that they are overtly opposed to muggleborns; only they claim that we, who are raised by outsiders, can never fully understand or appreciate their unique customs. Gay wizards, those who refuse to contribute to society, are seen as betrayers, acting out on their own selfish desires at the expense of the greater good." She drew a deep breath. "It also relates to the way purebloods view magic, as different from the way muggleborns might view it. Many purebloods would say that a good bonding spell, or even a powerful love potion, should be enough to overcome homosexuality, and make it possible for an otherwise uninterested individual to have a fulfilling relationship with a member of the opposite sex."

Harry, who had once spent a week and a half confounded by a love potion that had caused him to mistake his interest in a Miss Eunice Woggins (47 year old spinster and amateur breeder of kneazles) could only shudder. "Those don't work," he said. "Not really. Wouldn't they just end up miserable together, but never quite knowing why?"

Hermione had nodded vigorously. "That's what I think. But others say that, when a person really wants to change, magic can make all the difference… and that's what's got me so worried now. It seems that Aubery Figgert – the founder of the WFA, you know – has been giving the most inflammatory speeches. It's so irresponsible, Harry. These days, there are only just a few witches and wizards who feel comfortable enough with their sexuality to live with it openly in the wizard world. A lot of them live in this neighborhood," she gestured around her, "and they do tend to be the muggleborn ones, you know, for whom pureblood culture is less meaningful. Still, it isn't an easy thing, by any means, what they are trying to do." She frowned, the crease between her pretty eyebrows a sign that she was becoming emotional. "At the same time those openly gay wizards have become more obvious, the WFA has stepped up their anti-homosexuality propaganda. I don't know if it's an attempt to suppress those gay wizards – I always thought, honestly, that it was actually coincidence: that Figgert had just latched onto the topic because he was pleased with the press he got over it. But Harry, what if people are listening to those horrible speeches he gives! I was hoping…. I was hoping that all this recent tension was a sign that things were changing, that…" she looked at him guiltily, as if there was something else she wanted, perhaps, to say.

Harry frowned, but was prevented from thinking of what he might want to answer by the sounds of Ron coming home. He came into the kitchen like a great frost giant, still wearing his coat and boots and hat, dusted by fast-melting snowflakes.

"Hi, Harry!" He said. "It's snowing again! If only we'd had some of this at Christmas, yeah?"

With Ron's arrival their conversation turned away from the investigation and towards more comfortable topics. Still, Harry was aware of Hermione's eyes on him throughout dinner.

She ambushed him again, after the dinner and coffee, as Harry was gathering up his winter things in his arms so that he could step through the floo with them. Ron went to the bathroom for a moment and Hermione came up, touching his sleeve.

"You said Malfoy was working on that investigation with you as a muggle consultant, didn't you?" She said. "Does that mean he's gay, then?"

Harry felt the tension that had been gone from his body after a relaxing meal, fall back into his belly like a lump of clay. He faltered. "I'm not sure," he said. "He sort of implied that today. But I don't really know what his situation is… he also seems to have a girlfriend…"

Hermione looked into his eyes, "If he is, you will keep that to yourself, won't you? I mean… none of us ever liked Malfoy much, but… remember what I was saying before, a secret like that could destroy him."

Harry frowned, "It's Auror business, Hermione. Of course I'll keep everything confidential. You're the only one I'd've mentioned it to. "

"I know." Affectionately, she arranged the scarf that he had been winding around his neck. "I just can't help nagging, now and then." She looked up at him searchingly. "You haven't changed your mind, have you? Because, you know that we'll be here for you, if you ever want to talk or…"

Harry cut her off. "Won't you just accept, Hermione, that sometimes you're just wrong about things!"

She looked feisty, defiant, like a girl, for a moment, and then she let go of his coat and took a step back.

"I almost think this investigation might be good for you," she said. "If only it wasn't Malfoy."

"What do you mean?" He accused.

"Someone you could talk to, I don't know," Hermione looked on the verge of saying more, but Ron returned in that moment, and the tension between Harry and Hermione was so palpable that he looked back and forth between them, momentarily confused.

Harry sighed, and Hermione soften. "Let's talk about this later, Harry," she said, pleadingly.

Harry gritted his teeth and stepped out into the weather quickly, before he said anything he might regret later.


	3. Chapter 2

He met Malfoy the next morning. As it happened the Wandsworths had agreed to meet them right away, and so they went directly to interview the parents of the victim.

Margot Wandsworth couldn't refrain from twisting her napkin nervously as she sat on the living room sofa, and Hugo, her husband, paused in his speech every few minutes to calmingly take her hand, or rub her back. They seemed the very picture of distressed parents, distraught over the loss of their child.

Harry sat across from them on a second sofa. Malfoy had taken the armchair when they entered, and somehow Harry found that irritating – well, perhaps what irritated him was not so much that Malfoy had sat down in the armchair as the way in which he had sat down in it: one leg crossed over the other, his elbow on the arm, and his head propped against his fist. He looked like an indolent king, and his body language would have spoken of the utmost boredom, except that was he appeared that his attention was focused very intently on the Wandsworths.

"We always thought we would one day reconcile," Margot said, softly. "It was very hard to ask him to leave the house, but it was for the best – indulging such behavior would only have made the situation worse."

"What did happen, exactly?" Harry asked. Margot pursed her lips. "I wouldn't ask, only it may be important to the investigation."

"Well…" She looked reluctantly towards her husband, who nodded seriously, before she began.

"Timothy was always such a good boy, at school, and we never had any trouble from him, until perhaps the summer before his sixth year. He had made a friend at Hogwarts – well, it doesn't bear saying who-"

"We'll need to know," Harry said, gently.

She frowned before whispering the answer. "Freddy Chickering. A Slytherin. You know, I don't know if that matters, but I always thought… always wondered… if he wasn't the cause of everything that happened afterwards, really… if he didn't convince Timothy to act the way he did. You see, " she continued rapidly, "Timothy was always very honorable, by nature – we were surprised, really, when he was sorted into Ravenclaw and not Griffindor. Once he had an idea in his head that something was a certain way, it was always hard to sway him…"

She broke down for a moment, into awkward, half-panting sobs, and they gave her a moment to collect herself.

"One of the professors at Hogwarts found letters – more like notes, really – that the two boys had been passing back and forth in class. The notes hinted at things… and when the professor confronted them… well… both boys refused to deny anything. They said that they were gay, and that they had for some time been involved in a…relationship..." her voice diminished to a whisper, "…of an apparently sexual nature. "

"Of course, we felt it best to remove Timothy from school, at least for a while. But he was so… unrepentant about what had happened. We asked him to attend a Healer with us, which he did once, but afterwards refused to do again. He grew more and more withdrawn, and then, during the beginning of the winter's holiday, he disappeared for three days. We never did find out where he went, but of course I suspect it was to see," he voice cracked, "that boy."

"Was that all?" Malfoy interjected. Harry shot him a dirty look, which he ignored.

"No, not all," Margot's soft voice washed over them. "He was just a child, you understand – our only son. No matter how horrible the things he was doing, we knew that, at heart, he was still a good boy. But then – well, suddenly he was going out all the time, and we had no idea where. When we asked him to promise to refuse to contact Freddy again, he outright refused. He wouldn't obey any of the rules we set for him, he got angry and yelled at us when we tried to help…"

"We set him an ultimatum," Hugo Wandsworth said. "Either agree to stop seeing Chickering, to go with us to a Healer and have his problem fixed and stop going out without our permission… or else leave."

"And he chose to leave?" Harry said, very gently.

"He left. He said he didn't need us any more anyway. He said he had friends…" Margot broke, again, into awkward sobbing.

"That was all. What else could we do? He knew how to contact us when he was ready. We knew… we believed… that once he saw what life was like, how ostracized he would be, with no money and no friends, that he would come back to us and apologize. We were only, ever, trying to do what was best."

"Of course," Draco said, and Harry wondered if it was just his imagination, or if there was an undercurrent of malice to Malfoy's smooth tones. "Surely sending him out on the street, to live on his own, was the best you could do for him."

Margot Wandsworth looked at him with huge eyes. "But it was!" She said. "Don't you see? We agonized over this…"

Harry shot Malfoy a warning look before turning back to Hugo. "I'm sorry to ask this, again, but do you have any idea where he might have gone after he moved out? Do you know who any of his friends were?"

Hugo curled his lip. "Aside from Freddy Chickering, I have no idea." He sighed heavily. "Muggles, I imagine. I never heard any word of him on Diagon Alley, and, anyway, that is where most wizards go, isn't it, when they want to indulge unnatural tendencies? To the muggle world?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Malfoy said, very softly. Harry thought he might be trying to bait the Wandsworths and so pretended he hadn't heard him. "Just one last question, Mr. and Mrs. Wandsworth, and then we can let you know." He paused. "I'm sorry to have to ask it, but can you tell me where you two were two nights ago, in the afternoon and the evening?"

Margot looked on the verge of tears at this question, and Hugo as though he was about to become angry. "It's standard Auror procedure," Harry added quickly. "We have to ask."

The couple exchanged a glance, and then Hugo Wandsworth sighed. "Yes, of course. We were both here, all evening. I got home from work around six… Margot roasted a chicken… and we went to bed around ten, as we do every night."

"Did you receive any visitors that might corroborate that? Even a floo call?"

The couple looked at each other again, but, after a moment of thought, both shook their head. "No. We can corraborate each other's location, of course, but that's all."

"Have you any house-elves?"

"No, not one."

Harry nodded slowly, and tucked his quill into his Auror's notebook. " Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Wandsworth. We've taken up enough of your time."

They walked out of the Wandsworth's front door into the perfect dark and cold of the January evening, Malfoy was a step ahead of Harry. "Is this all for tonight?" he asked, turning around slightly.

"Yes," said Harry. "Listen, I don't know what you were up to in there." He stopped. "Perhaps we should lay some ground rules for the rest of the investigation."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Like what?"

Harry shrugged. "No speaking unless spoken too, perhaps? You might have offended them – and the last thing I need is the family feeling victimized."

Malfoy snorted. "I was very restrained. They were horrible. Surely you, with your Griffindor sense of morality, must have felt the same."

"They lost a son," Harry said, rather strongly. "This isn't the time for me or you to be judging them."

Malfoy looked rebellious, but apparently thought better of saying more. He kicked a non-existent can down the cobblestones. Harry felt a small, childish surge of delight at having won the argument, but Malfoy's voice interrupted his thoughts.

" Don't we need to regroup, or plan, or something?"

"I", Harry said, stressing the vowel, "Need to write this up." He tapped the notebook that he had used to jot down what the Wandsworths had said. "After I'm finished with that, I'll floo the Chickerings, and ask for a meeting."

Malfoy shrugged. "You know who Freddy Chickering is, don't you?"

"No," Harry snapped. "Some pureblood brat, I suppose?"

Malfoy actually rolled his eyes. "Well, you are well informed, aren't you?" He said sarcastically. "As it happens, Potter, Freddy Chickering is the step-son of Aubrey Figgert – I don't know if you've heard of him, by chance?"

"No," Harry felt his face flush, feeling very annoyed that Malfoy was making him feel stupid. "Wait. Hermione said something about that the other night, I think….

"He's is the leader of the WFA – that's Wizarding Family Alliance - it's a group that tries to promote Pureblood values, and discourages homosexuality."

"Oh, yeah," Harry said. He looked at Malfoy. "How do you know about them?"

Malfoy snorted. "I read the papers, Potter." He sniffed. "In addition, Figgert's a bit of a social-climber. He's been pestering Mother and I with invitations to his group for ages." He paused. "I always enjoy reading the replies she writes to him: she has always known how to turn a phrase so as to make it just _cutting_."

"What about the son?"

"I've never heard much about him." Malfoy said. "I think I've seen him around, once or twice. But I never heard that story before."

"That's strange," Harry said, slowly.

Malfoy seemed interested. "So, you think his boyhood crush might be the murderer?"

"I don't know," Harry snapped. "It's much too early to say. First we should set up an interview, that's all."

"Of course," Malfoy said, irritatingly polite.

Harry felt foolish. "And of course I need to return to the club where Timothy died," He added, not knowing quite while he felt the need to explain so to Malfoy. "I need to try and figure out what muggles he knew there."

"What was it called?" Malfoy asked, abruptly.

Harry checked his notes. "Cielo."

"Oh." Malfoy looked at the non-existant dirt under his fingernails for a moment. "I know it."

"Do you?" Harry said, politely disinterested. "That's rather convenient."

Malfoy snorted, finally. "Potter, this isn't going to work. " He frowned. "Were you not listening to a single word that the odious man inside might have said?" He impersonated Hugo Wandsworth's heavy baritone. "Isn't that where most wizards go, when they want to indulge unnatural tendencies..?"

Harry shrugged, though he'd been curious since his conversation with Hermione the previous night. "You don't mean to say that you… are…"

"Yes?" Malfoy said. He was suddenly standing very close to Harry, leaning over a bit so that he could stick his pointy chin in Harry's face.

"You know," Harry said, weakly.

"No," Malfoy said. "Actually, I don't."

"Gay?"

"Well," Malfoy glared. "Are you sure you want to go right back to the office? Or would you rather we have a chat first?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

"Let's have some tea," Malfoy said, with an air of decision. "It will clear the air."

They went to The Silver Teaspoon, a quiet little place tucked into a back street of Hogsmead village. It didn't look like the sort of place someone like Malfoy might usually frequent, but then, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if, given the nature of their conversation, Malfoy was attempting to keep a low profile. As they walked towards the shop, Malfoy's pocket began ringing, causing him to remove a slim, apparently magically-altered cell phone, of the sort that was popular those days among the younger wizards.

"Greg," He said, in greeting, "Yes, yes, No. Yeah, of course. I'll talk to you later." He snapped the phone shut. Greg, Harry realized, with a start, must be Gregory Goyle. It seemed very surreal that even Malfoy and Goyle were using muggle toys like cell phones these days.

"I'm really very annoyed with Kingsley Shacklebolt," Malfoy said, apropos of nothing, as a wave of his wand set his teaspoon stirring. "I would have thought that he would have the good taste to set the situation out before sending you to me, instead of expecting me to, humiliatingly, lay it out before you myself."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

Malfoy gave him a considering look. "You don't seem too upset to find that you've been paired with a homosexual."

"Well, Er." Harry said. "I was raised among muggles, you know, and we tend to be a little more..."

"Liberal-minded, I know." Malfoy said. "Which isn't saying much, because the muggles themselves are a dreadfully bigoted lot. Still, very little can compare against the pig-headedness of a truly determined pureblood."

Harry laughed, but, as Malfoy continued to survey him, coolly, heard the sound of it awkwardly dying off. "That was a joke, wasn't it?"

"Not really." Malfoy frowned, stopped his spoon, and then took a sip of tea. "Dear Madame Elena," He said. "She always does brew an absolutely perfect cup. Do you know what the trick is?" He leaned, conspiratorially, over the table at Harry, and whispered, "Absolutely no magic at all."

"What?"

"You know. No magical heating of the water or hurrying-along of the steeping process. Many a wizard would be less impressed with her shop, I imagine, if they knew."

"I suppose," Harry said. "What's it to the purpose?"

Malfoy frowned. "Impatient as always, Potter." He leaned back in his chair again, and cast a privacy charm, strong enough to set the air glittering around them.

"Let's set some pre-conditions," he said. "Do you agree that everything I tell you here is priviledged information?"

Harry coughed. "I'm already bond by the Auror's oath, anyway – I can't repeat anything I hear during the course of an investigation unless repeating it cannot harm the subject to which it pertains or is needed in the course of the investigation…"

"No." Malfoy said. "I know that oath, it's full of holes. This is completely in secret. We swear again, now, or I go back to Shacklebolt and tell him that I can't work with you."

Harry paused. The temptation to rid himself of Malfoy was strong – but curiosity to hear what Malfoy seemed on the verge of telling him was stronger.

"Fine," he snapped out.

"Fine," Malfoy mocked back. "Hold out your wrist."

Harry did so, and allowed Malfoy to use his want to make a small nick in his wrist, drawing out three drops of blood. Then, Malfoy cut his own wrist, and allowed the drops to mingle in the air, until Harry felt the faint tingle of a spell passing over him.

"There," Malfoy said, "That's it. This is all confidential, you won't be able to repeat any of it, even to your Weasel or his muggle wife."

"I've been thinking for a while now," Harry said. "You say muggle, now, instead of mudblood."

Malfoy shot him a dirty look. "Of course I do. These days, saying mudblood would practically be social suicide."

"Oh," Harry said, a bit disappointed. "Is that the only reason?"

"Yes," snapped Malfoy. "Now, tell, me, why do you think I am doing this favor for Kingsley Shacklebolt, anyway?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Harry said. "He must have made some arrangement with you."

Malfoy considered. "Yes. That's about right. You see, about a year ago, some of his aurors caught me… well, in flagrante delicto, you might say, in a rather public place." He shuddered. "It would have been very, very embarrassing – my parents, their acquaintances, most of my friends, have no idea that I am gay –except that Shacklebolt decided to cover up the evidence, in exchange for a favor or two on my part."

Harry nodded slowly. "All right."

Malfoy shrugged. "That's it. This is my payment. Shacklebolt's an honorable if unusually savvy Griffindor-type, so you know how that goes. I believe he'll keep his part of the bargain and let me off after this. Of course, he did hit a bit below the belt by insisting that I work with you." He took a careful sip of his tea, and gave Harry another long, cold look. "I suppose maybe I should say he's done me a favor, by assigning me to you, who already hates me enough that even finding out that I'm gay won't make you hate me more."

Harry cleared his throat. He had no idea what Malfoy was on about, really, but no idea to find out either. "I'm a professional." He said, awkwardly. "I have no problem with homosexuality, and I certainly won't use my influence to stigmatize you in any way."

Malfoy gave him a look that implied that he thought Harry was a complete idiot. "Thank you," he said, very dryly.

Harry nodded. After a moment, he took a bite of biscuit. He was sitting in a tea shop with Draco Malfoy, of all people, and he felt uncomfortable.

"How did you know?" He asked, abruptly.

Malfoy looked amused. "How did I know what?"

"That you were gay?" Harry said, refusing to stutter or flush over the word.

Malfoy gave him a long, interrogative look, his gray eyes analytical. Finally he shrugged. "It's none of your business, Potter."

Harry felt himself going red. "I was just asking, wasn't I?"

But Malfoy continued. "It was after the war, of course. I went out a few times on my own– a bit of muggle slumming – just out to normal clubs. And then one night by chance this absolutely gorgeous boy hit on me and I just thought, why not, no-one ever need know. I suppose somewhere inside I had already known, but…" He looked at Harry pointedly, and Harry recalled, belatedly, that Slytherins gave nothing, not even information, away for free. "My mother – needs me to be a certain kind of son. I can portray that image better for her when I have something private… an outlet, I suppose you might call it."

"Ah," Harry said. The whole thing sounded rather jaded and horrible. He couldn't imagine…. He was startled from his train of thought when Malfoy's hand crept cross the table and tapped against his teacup.

"Why were you curious, Potter?"

Malfoy's thin lips were closed in an irritating smirk. Harry felt himself growing more irritated that frightened, and he let that irritation show through.

"Just wondering," he said. "This boy, Timothy, his family seems- not rich, but still pretty Wizard, not the sort to know anything about muggles. It's a big transition, to start spending time in that world. I just wondered how he managed it."

Draco shrugged. "It's not really so hard, Potter. After all, they're just muggles."

Harry had the desire to grind his teeth . "Anyway," he said, "the main thing is, we're agreed to put aside out past… differences… for the sake of getting this done?"

Malfoy shrugged again. Harry took it to be acceptance.

"The Wandsworths were alone in their home, with no witnesses." He said.

"You said that you don't suspect them, though."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose not really, no."

Malfoy leaned back, and copied Harry's tone of voice, a bit mockingly. "I suppose I don't either." Harry gave Malfoy a sharp look. "I mean, they aren't perfect people: that much is obvious. Still, they didn't seem like they wanted him dead."

Harry agreed. "I doubt it's even possible for a parent to muster up enough hatred to kill their own child."

"Oh,' Said Malfoy. "You'd be surprised."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Harry decided to put that comment aside and move on.

"So, you know Cielo?"

"I know almost all of gay London," Malfoy said. "Though I can't say Cielo is one of my favorite clubs, I've been there a few times." He paused. "It's Friday, so it will be full. We should visit tonight."

Harry coughed, and Malfoy gave him another vaguely irritated look. "Do you have something to do that you can't get out of?"

As a matter of fact, Harry didn't, and, from the way Malfoy's reptilian grey eyes were boring into him, he couldn't think quickly enough of an excuse that might be accepted. He sighed mentally: it was work, after all, it was going to be important to solving the crime. "I suppose not."

"Good." Malfoy gulped down the rest of his tea, quickly, although it occurred to Harry that it must still be fairly hot. That ungraceful movement was a like the tiniest chink in Malfoy's armor, Harry thought, and for a second he contemplated the implications of what he has just heard. He knew a secret big enough to destroy Draco Malfoy. Had he had to guess how being in such a situation would have made him feel, prior to actually being in it, he would have imagined that holding Malfoy's life in his hands would be rather satisfying. Instead, it only felt uncomfortable. Harry realized that he really didn't want to become entangled with Malfoy any more than was absolutely necessary. They would complete this case as quickly as possible and then, hopefully, go back to ignoring each other as much as possible.

It was all he could give himself to think about, at the moment.

Harry shrugged. "We should floo the Chickerings, or the Figgerts, or whoever they are, and ask to speak with Freddy."

"The Figgerts, I should think. Freddy is the son of Mrs. Figgert's first husband, but now he lives with her mother and her husband."

As it happened, Miss Elena of the Silver Spoon had a floo that she was more than happy to let them use, as well as a phone book. Harry was left to the awkward task of getting on his hands and knees to stick his head through the rather low floor, while Malfoy stood back, gracefully, and watched him do it. Harry was struck by the paranoid notion, just for an instant, that Malfoy might be looking at his arse, but shook it off. Acting like a paranoid certainly wouldn't do anything for his case.

He threw a pinch of floo powder on the flame, and, repeated the Figgert's address before sticking his head in.

From the flame, he could soon see just from looking into the room that it was a much grander house than the Wandsworth's. After a moment, a rather sniffy house elf arrived to look at Harry dubiously. After being informed that he was an auror, and that he wished to speak to Freddy Chicerking on official business, the house elf, if anything, became even less friendly. Master and Mistress. Figgert, he informed Harry, were Master Freddy's official guardians. He was sure that they would need to be informed before Master Freddy had any interview with an Auror. Unfortunately, Master and Mistress were not at home just at the moment. The Masters would be informed that the Auror wished to speak with them as soon as they returned.

Harry would be forced to grit his teeth, and to wait.


	4. Chapter 3

In the evening, Harry apparated to the same spot he had before, behind the dumpsters of Cielo, where he and Malfoy had agreed to meet. It had already been dark for three hours or more. The snowfall of the day before had already melted to grimy sludge on the London sidewalks. With the temperature dropping as night fell, the sludge was beginning to freeze over.

He cast a warming charm and waiting patiently. After a few minutes, he had the joy of seeing Malfoy step from behind the dumpster too.

He had changed into muggle attire, a heavy winter coat and scarf. Harry could see nothing wrong with them. Apparently Malfoy really could, as he claimed, blend in with muggles.

"Let's go in,"

The club that had been nothing more than a locked door in the day time now had a queue of people stretching around the block to enter. Malfoy strode imperiously to the front of the line. Harry put his hand on his wand in his pocket, waiting to whisper a spell so that the bouncer would let them through. However, Malfoy's bright smile was somehow enough to do the trick.

In the coat room, they shed their coats and scarves and hats. Harry cautiously palmed his wand, waiting for a moment later when he could slip it into its holster. Malfoy, apparently, had already hidden his somewhere on his person.

He had very little experience judging such clothing, but he still he could tell that what Malfoy wore was fashionable and most probably very expensive. He wore very tight grey pants, of a demin-like material, and a white t-shirt top. When Malfoy moved, he thought he saw the faintest glimpse of a glamour shimmer for a moment – but he could not for the life of him image what, exactly, Malfoy might be creating or covering-up with one. Then he saw that Malfoy's bare right arm was perfectly smooth. The Dark Mark could not be easily covered by glamours, Harry knew, but for a few hours, at least, one might hold. He must have been staring a bit too obviously, however, for Malfoy gave him a cold look. Then his expression changed as he raked his eyes over Harry's body.

"Merlin, Potter, you can't be wearing that!"

"What?" Harry looked down at his jeans and shirt with perplexity. It was practically his standard uniform when going out, and he'd rarely heard any complaints before.

Malfoy sighed, and Harry rolled his eyes. They went inside.

His first impression was that Cielo didn't differ much from the few muggle clubs that he had visited, at one time or another, during his friend's occasional curious forays into the mundane world. The dance floor was sunken a few feet before them, and the music was loud and raucous. As it was still fairly early, only perhaps twenty or so were dancing. Bright multicolored streaks of light, cast through smoke onto a writhing floor of bodies, had the effect of making each individual look, for a moment, more glamorous and exotic than one might see them in everyday life.

Nothing so interesting about it, and yet he stared.

The music being what it was, most of the people on the floor were dancing very energetically. But one couple, towards the back, was locked in a slower embrace: swaying together back and forth. One man had his hands on the other's waist, and his partner's arms were flung over his shoulders.

It wasn't raunchy or drippily romantic – wasn't really spectacular in any way, and yet Harry felt a great hole ripped in his chest, as if he's suddenly been split in two. He glanced at Malfoy to catch if he'd noticed, but luckily, it appeared not.

The blonde strutted forward authoritatively and Harry, not wanting to lose sight of him, followed so closely behind that his nose was practically shoved into the blonde's hair, giving him a whiff of spicy cologne and shampoo when Malfoy stopped suddenly. He noticed a few appreciate looks being cast in the Slytherin's direction.

Malfoy found a small table for them away from the dance floor and motioned Harry to sit down. When the waitress comes by to ask what they will be drinking, he ordered for both of them, yelling something in her ear that Harry didn't quite catch.

Malfoy then leaned over the table, and Harry, understanding after a moment that he wanted to talk over the noise, leaned over as well.

"Let me try to explain how things go here," Malfoy said. "Personally, I've always worked to avoid other wizards. Whenever I see someone I think I might recognize, or get a whiff of magic in a place, I leave as quickly as I can. That's because I'm still a respectable member of the wizarding community, and have every intention of staying so."

"But those, like Timothy Wandsworth, who have left the wizarding world entirely, are a little different." Malfoy gestured around the club with a broad sweep on his hand. "They do well in places like this, you know – they are still registered wizards, and as long as they keep the magic discrete and don't say anything to the muggles, you must know yourself that no one at the ministry will ever bother about them. Usually after awhile they get homesick, and become rather desperate for other magical company. See that man over there, by the bar?"

Harry followed Malfoy's gaze. Standing at the corner of the bar, was a tall, grayish man, dressed in an odd button down shirt of canary yellow. He was talking to a boy, one that Harry could tell, even from a distance, was much younger than the man was, and much more attractive. And yet it was the odd, older gentleman who looked bored, and the young athlete who seemed to be desperately vying for his attention. If he hadn't known better, Harry would have said that it almost appeared as though their positions were that of a veela and her suitor.

"Can you tell?" Malfoy murmured, a bit too close to Harry's ear.

"A glamour." Harry replied, flatly.

"And something else as well, I should wager. A potion, perhaps, designed to attract people. That old man is Leonard Grindlings – many years ago, a charm-maker in Diagon Alley – until his proclivities became too well known and his customers abandoned him. Now, he spends practically all his time as a muggle – always surrounded by handsome young things, and one of the supposedly lights of the London scene – though he has neither taste, nor personality, nor wealth or good looks – there is not one reason why he should attract anyone. He maintains his position wholly through magic." Draco shrugged. "Grindlings is the main reason I have always avoided Cielo: he makes it his base camp, you see. If he were to recognize me – though I hope that it's unlikely, as he probably hasn't even bought a copy of the Prophet in fifteen years – well, I have everything to lose – and he has nothing at all."

"Hence the glamours you wear tonight?" Harry said, speculatively.

Malfoy snorted. "If I were you, I'd cover that stupid scar up. You're the bloody savior of the wizarding world, you know. Even Grindlings would recognize you."

A young man who had been looking over at their table for a while finally came over.

"David? " He said, in a friendly way. "Long time no see!"

Malfoy's lips pursed into a very tight line. "Sean," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, great," the mean said. "What's it been, anyway? Two months? What have you been up too?"

"Oh," Malfoy said, still coldly. "You know how it is. I've been busy."

"Oh, yes, oh course." Sean said. He seemed to belatedly be realizing how unfriendly the water he had waded into. Harry, feeling sorry for the muggle, gave him a smile.

"Are you a friend of David's?" Sean asked, abruptly.

"Yes."

"No," Malfoy said in the very same moment. They looked at each other for a moment. "We were classmates in school." Harry offered.

"Ah," said Sean. "So you aren't…"

"No," said Malfoy, his voice frigid to arctic temperatures.

"What's your name?" Sean asked. Harry and Malfoy shared another quick glance.

"James," Harry decided quickly. He held out his hand to Sean. "My name's James."

"Nice to meet you." Sean said. "David, I wouldn't be interrupting if I stole James away for a dance, would I?"

Malfoy looked highly entertained."Not at all," he said. "Be my guest."

Harry shot him a dirty look. Malfoy probably expected him to become upset, but he felt inclined not to let such silly games discombobulate him.

"I should warn you that I'm not gay," he said to Sean, as the other man lead him to the dance floor. "Ma… David's wants to give me a hard time tonight."

"No problem," the muggle Sean said. "It's a pity because you're cute, but I promise not to hit on you." He smiled a bit wistfully. "It sounds like him."

"What about you guys?"

"Oh, we were on-again, off-again for a while. About five months, actually. I was actually rather proud of myself for having been able to hold his attention for more than a one-nighter – you know how David is: 'ooh, pretty thing', and he drops whatever he's holding and moves onto what's next, like a baby with its toys. But then he sort of disappeared a while ago, as I said, and I suppose that was his way of letting me know that we were over."

Harry could only nod. "Sounds like him."

He made conversation with Malfoy's muggle ex for a while longer. Sean seemed nice – laid back and funny – and he found himself wondering how someone so nice could have put up with a prat like Malfoy for so long. But when he said so, Sean, oddly, defended Malfoy. David. Harry had to be careful to keep the names straight.

"He's a bit caustic, you know, but I found it charming. I actually think he might be totally insecure."

"David?" Harry laughed. "No way."

He was enjoying himself, he realized. How odd. Had Malfoy not been there and had it not been a murder investigation he could have imagined himself – what was the expression Malfoy had used –thinking 'why not?". It wasn't like a little flirting was such a terrible thing, Harry thought, and smiled at Sean without thinking about it.

Sean smiled back. "Hey," he said, "I know you said you weren't interested , but, are you sure you don't want to, I don't know, grab a cup of coffee sometime?"

Harry felt his smile fade to uncertainty. "No," he said, "but thanks."

Returning to his seat a few minutes later, Harry found it occupied by a second muggle, one that Malfoy seemed rather pleased with. He was leaning across the table with the greatest interest, as if every word from the man's mouth fascinated him. For a moment, Harry could understand how someone like Malfoy might even be appealing – he was openly selfish and egotistical, and yet that must only more appealing when the full force of his attention was finally focused on one. Still, they were supposed to be at Cielo to work. Harry put his hands down on the table with a little more force than was really necessary. While the muggle gave him a startled, slightly nervous look, Malfoy only smiled, doubtless delighted to have achieved his objective of irritating him.

"Excuse me," the muggle said, "but I'm in the middle of a conversation with David here, and…"

Ignoring him, Harry mouthed the name "Kingsley Shacklebolt" at Malfoy. The blonde scowled, but turned to the muggle with a small grimace. "Sorry," he said, "he can get sooo jealous." He gave Harry a dirty look. "This is Lance Anderson," he said. "A good friend of Tim's. Do you remember, the boy I told you about, who was killed?" He turned back to Lance with a look of compassion. "It must be so hard for you."

The man looked earnestly into Malfoy's eyes.

"You have no idea," he said. "It's been so terrible. I mean, we always knew that things could happen, but I never imagined to Tim. He was just the nicest, sweetest guy."

"I'm so sorry," Harry said. Realizing his cue, he sat down. "I didn't realize who you were. That whole thing was so terrible. Do the cops have any idea who did it?"

"None," Lance said. "I called the precinct this morning, you know, to ask if there were any leads. And the officer – the very guy who'd told me the other day to call if anything, absolutely anything, came to mind, acted as though he didn't know who I was. The case has been closed, he said. It was an act of random violence. Can you imagine!" He looked mutinous. "Homophobes, the lot of them, that's what they are. It doesn't even matter to them when one of us dies."

Draco shook his head somberly, and Harry did the same. They both knew that the cop had probably been obliviated.

"So you think it was a hate-crime too?" Draco said, "Or do you think that the murderer must have known Tim?"

Lance, hunched over the table, rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. "Hate crime, I imagine," he said. "That, or I really don't know. The police said at first that the cause of death was unclear – that sounds like a drug, or something, doesn't it?" He looked around them. "I'm not saying that it doesn't happen, but Tim avoided those kinds of things, always. And anyway, we never saw him here that night. Could have been on his way over when it happened, but all the police were asking us where we were around three am, four am, a little late for him to just have been arriving here. Could have come to pick somebody up, but I would have heard about that, and…." He shook his head. "I don't know, I just don't know."

He looked pensive for a moment. "There is one thing, though. Thing is, Tim was my roommate – there were three of us– and that night, we were all going to go out together. But Tim didn't. He said he had someone to talk to, and he would come later. It sounded like someone from his past – he was all nervous and excited about it." Lance sighed. "You know how it was, I guess, with his parents throwing him out? That was really hard on him. He always hoped that one day they'd come around."

Malfoy nodded encouragingly. "So he went to see his folks?"

Lance shook his head. "I don't know. He said it wasn't them. Maybe someone else…" He paused for a minute. "Maybe Gibbons. They were friends for a while."

"Gibbons?" Harry said, but Malfoy coughed. "Oh, I know him."

"Yeah. Well, you know how it is. Maybe Tim was hoping Gibbons could help him out, or something. He might have been a little short of cash."

"But they weren't friends anymore?"

"Not really. They had had a big fight about something or other, a few months ago. I think Tim found Gibbons a little bit… jaded… for his taste. Always with one guy after another –Tim was still young, you know, more of a romantic." Lance paused. "They were great friends up until then, though. Tim always said Gibbons was like a father to him, they way he'd helped him when he was first trying to get on his feet. But I don't know."

Harry nodded, though he felt he a little lost. Malfoy continued playing the part of the interested year, going so far as to pat Lance's hand supportively. This, unfortunately, had the unintended side-effect of distracting the muggle.

"You wouldn't want to come out with me tomorrow night?" Lance said, looking up and down at Malfoy. "I mean, we're having a bit of a thing and I don't know if you might be interested…"

Draco laughed at him tolerantly. "And this one is sitting right here!" He said, gesturing with a nod of the chin towards Harry.

"Oh," Lance said, politely. "Of course, sorry. Don't know what I was thinking."

"No trouble," Draco said, cheerfully. "Perhaps you want to go and rejoin your friends? They must be missing you, by now."

Easy-going Lance agreed, and it wasn't until he pulled his chair away from the table and stood up that Harry finally saw the tell-tale glassiness to his eye and the wobble in his step that looked a lot like intoxication.

"Did you slip him something?" He murmured to Malfoy, appalled.

"Oh, no," Malfoy said. "He did that all by himself." He leaned back in his chair with a hum, and sounded pleased. "I'm a bit of a legimens… didn't try to read him or anything, but a mild push in the right direction never hurt…"

Harry thought of giving him a short lecture in proper suspect interrogation technique, but he knew how many times he himself had bent the rules, and the idea would have been ludacris. So he merely pursed his lips to show some disapproval.

"So who was that Gibbons, anyway?" He said, finally. "You said that you knew him?"

"Yes," Malfoy murmured, with a voice like velvet, terribly pleased with himself. "Didn't I point him out earlier? Gibbons is the muggle named used by Leonard Grindlings."

"Oh." Harry shrugged. "That makes sense given what the muggle just now said too – Grindlings is an old wizard, kicked out many years ago, Timothy in the same situation but newly on his own…"

"Yes, I suppose so."

Harry took a sip of his drink, and found it sweet enough to almost disguise the pungent taste of strong alcohol beneath. He allowed his gaze to wander until it caught sight of Grindlings, grinding on the dance floor with another boy who looked young enough to be his son.

"I'll go and talk to him."

"Really?" Malfoy looked vaguely surprised. "Right now, you mean?"

"Yes, when better? He's still here, isn't he? Someone like him can't be expected to like aurors much. I'd rather get a hold of him while I have the chance, then have him disappear on us."

Malfoy shrugged elegantly. "All right, but you don't do things in a Slytherin way at all."

"Oh course no – what do you mean?"

"I'd observe a little longer – try to dig up some background information, you know…"

Harry shook his head decisively. "Better just catch him off guard." He strode resolutely forward, ignoring Malfoy, who whispered, "Onward, fearless leader," sardonically before rising up to follow him.

The music began fading into the next song just as Harry and Malfoy came towards Grindlings. The older wizard turned to his partner and said something Harry could not guess into his ear – whatever it was causing the young man to plaster himself against Grindling's body like glue. Harry caught the man's eye with the serious look that he usually employed in interrogations, and saw Grindling's expression changing from confused, to nervous, to slightly afraid. He saw the quick glance that Grindlings cast towards the exit. He imagined Grindlings might be mentally calculating, as suspects often did, whether he would have time to get to the exit before Harry did, and realizing he had not.

"Leonard Grindlings?" He said, loudly, as he reached the man. "A word, if you don't mind."

Grindlings seemed to falter a bit, but, with a quick look at the muggles around him, he gathered himself up. "I'm Leonard Gibbons," He said, carefully. "Don't know anyone of that name."

Harry nodded, trying to show Grindlings a bit of courtesy so that he would know that, for now at least, Harry really did only want to talk. "Of course," he said. "Mr. Gibbons?"

Ignoring the concerns of his muggle entourage, Grindlings allowed Harry to steer him out the front door – the street was deserted, and Harry felt it would be quieter there, and easier to talk. It was dark, and very chilly. Each of the three men, without looking at each other, removed their wands to perform warming charms. Then Grindlings looked into Harry's green eyes, and Malfoy's grey ones, and blanched.

"You're aurors, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Harry, shortly, shooting a threatening look towards Malfoy, who seemed on the verge of proclaiming his own innocence against the charge. It wouldn't look good to get into such details just then. He set up a quick privacy spell, and then removed his badge from his jean's pocket, pressing the center lightly to activate the recording charm within. "We'd like to talk to you about Timothy Wandsworth's death."

"I'm glad," Grindlings said, forcefully. "It's been days already! I was beginning to wonder if the wizarding world even cared. He was just a boy, you know."

"You aren't afraid of us?" Malfoy asked, curiously.

Grindlings looked at him with sunken eyes. "Of course I'm afraid. I know how you lot operate. I don't want to end up in Azkhaban in the case that you can't uncover the real murderer."

"That would never happen," Harry said, impatiently. He disliked the slightly skeptical look he received in return from both Grindlings and Malfoy, but stayed quiet. "Please tell us what you know about Timothy's death."

Grindlings looked at him again and then slowly nodded. "Well. I knew at once, of course, that it must have been magic. Tim wasn't a great wizard, what with having dropped out of Hogwart's and all, but he was past his eighteenth birthday and so he'd been able to practice unrestricted for a while. I don't think a muggle could have slipped anything by him. I wasn't there the night he died, but…"

"I'm sorry to have to ask, but can you tell me where you were?"

"At home, that night. With a friend. You can confirm it, if you like…"

"A muggle?" Harry asked. Muggle memories could be altered, and while it wasn't impossible to find out if that was the case, the accompanying paperwork was horrendous.

"Yeah."

"I'll need his name and address. How did you hear of the death?"

"Well, it was big news, you know. He was killed just a few blocks from here, and at first it was the MET that picked it up. So everyone was nervous, you know, because they assumed that it was a muggle hate crime. Only I knew differently – Tim always kept his wand with him, and he never drank so much that he couldn't use it."

"Right." Harry said. "Would it be accurate to say that you and Timothy were friends?"

Again, Grindlings looked shifty. "I wouldn't say that, exactly."

"What would you say?"

"Well." The old wizard scratched his jaw. "Tim was just a kid, I told you. When his parents first kicked him out, he had no idea about anything muggle. He couldn't walk through a revolving door without trying to hex it, much less use a computer or a telephone. As soon as I saw him, I could tell he was a wizard. And he was underage, too, at first, when I first met him – after he left Hogwarts. Even though he was no longer in school, the ministry still had all their tracking charms on him. So he was having a hard time –he didn't know how to make money, kept making mistakes until half the muggles here thought he wasn't right in the head. Well." Grindlings spread his hands in a, 'what could I do?' gesture.

"I helped him. I went through a similar thing, myself, many years ago – although for me it was easier, because I moved around amongst the muggles for a few years before I finally went over entirely, and because I wasn't as young as Tim was. I let him stay with me, got him a job, taught him how to find his way around, all those things. But after a while," he looked at Harry. "The young are ungrateful. Once he became more independent, and didn't need me anymore, he became critical. Accused me of using my magic to take advantage of the muggles… as if that was any of his concern – said he never wanted to become like me, as well." Grindlings snorted. "I was offended. Told him to shove off, and so he did. I didn't change my normal habits, but he changed his – all of a sudden, our paths simply didn't cross very often anymore.

Ungrateful, that's what I call it."

Harry nodded. "And is it true that you saw Timothy just before his death?"

Grindlings stared at him. "How did you know that?"

"Timothy may have mentioned it to some friends."

"Oh." Grindlings looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yes, he did. But it was a strange meeting, you know. I never found out exactly what he wanted to talk to me about."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he said that he'd had a visit from an old acquaintance. From the way he said it at first, I thought he meant his parents, but he said no, that wasn't it. Then he changed the subject, asked me if I thought that gay wizards would ever be accepted in the Wizarding World. I told him not in my lifetime, not unless something drastic was to change. He agreed with me, and said maybe not his lifetime either, and seemed depressed about that. Then he said that he had had some news which he had to think about a bit more first and then he apologized." Grindlings looked sly. "If you ask me, it must have been something to do with that boy he went to Hogwarts with, what was his name. Tim was totally in love with him, you know. When he was drunk, he sometimes talked as if he thought they would still end up together."

Harry frowned, and removed his notebook. Carefully, he removed the photo of Frederick Figgert and handed it to Grindlings.

"Have you ever seen this man before?"

Grindlings looked down at the photo. "Yes, of course. Never in person, but Tim kept his own photos, and I've seen those. This is the boy, Tim's old boyfriend."

"But not here at Cielo?"

"No."

Harry frowned. "Have you seen any other wizards at Cielo recently? Or people you thought might be wizards?"

"No…. well, perhaps once or twice. Usually they disappeared quick, perhaps once they got a whiff of my magic they looked for a different place to be." He looked at Draco speculatively. "Your magic feels a bit familiar, at any rate,"

"He's an undercover operative," Harry said, shortly.

Grindlings looked thoughtful. "Is he?" He said. "Well, don't worry about it, I'm not one of those people who has something bad happen to them, and then wants to spread the pain onto everyone else. If I run into an 'undercover operative' or anyone at Cielo, I won't go blabbing to the media or anyone like that."

"But you would tell us." Harry said, firmly.

"Er… yes."

They spoke for a while longer before Harry gave Grindlings his card, and asked Grindlings to let him know if anything else that he thought might be helpful came to mind. Grindlings accepted the card, though he grumbled that he hadn't used a floo or an owl in years. "Regular post is fine too," Harry said, turning over the card to show him muggle contact information. "Muggles only see the address and email," he said. "And it's all routed to a PO box that the departmental secretary checks every morning. Just put C/O Auror Harry Potter in the first line, and it will be directed to me."

"Harry Potter?" Grindling look surprised, and Harry realized then that he'd neglected to identify himself properly before, and grimaced as he waited for an embarrassing request to show his scar, or some other such thing. But Grindlings only stared at him, with a great look of satisfaction.

"Well, I'm glad I finally got to see you with my own eyes," he said, finally. "I wish I could go home and tell Marcus about it, but Marcus is a muggle, and he wouldn't understand." Impulsively Grindlings held out his hand, and then, awkwardly, began to pull it back, as if he thought Harry wouldn't accept it. So Harry grabbed it firmly before Grindlings had a chance to put his hand down all together, and shook it as warmly as he knew how.

"Thank you," said Grindlings, looking pink. Harry began to feel embarrassed, and then, behind him, Malfoy snorted skeptically, and he was grateful to take the sound as a signal to say good-night to Leonard Grindlings.

He returned home that night with a feeling behind his eyeballs that he knew would, in a few hours, turn into a splitting headache. A glance into his empty bathroom cabinet was enough to make him give up and summon Kretcher, who brought a vial of Professor Yerbel's Stressaway Potion and a strong coffee as soon as he asked.

Settling onto the couch, he removed from his pocket Malfoy's card, which still looked perfectly crisp and clean despite the fact that it should have been at least bent a little long ago. Harry couldn't help but turn it over with his fingertips. "Malfoy Manor", the script now read, although it had faded to silver, with the line, "Do Not Disturb" written below.

He thought back to earlier in the night – to Grindling's pathetically pleased expression when Harry had accepted his hand, to just a few minutes earlier, when he and Malfoy had awkwardly shaken before apparating off to their homes for the night. Grindlings had his faults, of that Harry was sure – and Malfoy was still as stuck-up and as prickly as he had ever been. But neither of them deserved to be severed from the Wizarding community for their homosexuality.

There were many traits Harry felt that he lacked: patience, for he grew angry too easily; intelligence, and Ginny had often accused him of being emotionally unavailable, which had probably been true. However, Gryffindor that he was, he had never, ever doubted his own bravery.

Now, rolling over on the couch to look out the window at the moon, he wondered. He _knew_ that he was attracted to men. He'd known that… for a long time. But he had never wanted to act on that impulse, because for him what that would mean was giving up his oldest, dearest dream: a wife, kids, a house, maybe a dog. A family. But that was probably lost already anyway. He'd tried for with Ginny, and, if it hadn't worked with her, it wouldn't work with any woman. Perhaps, he thought, his own refusal to move forward was no braver than the half-life sneaking of the wizards who moved between both worlds.

He thought of Grindlings, going home to his young muggle lovers – men who had been tricked by Grindlings, who probably thought they loved him but didn't really know anything about him at all. It was unfair for the muggles, unfair for Grindlings, who had had to spend his life truly alone.

Then, as if it was a more frightening thought, his mind reluctantly turned to Malfoy. Malfoy, leaving his manor late at night to go to muggle gay clubs: to fuck muggle men, apparently, or be fucked by them.

Harry shivered.

I just wanted to say thanks to Erakiran and Damask Rose, my two kind reviewers! Thanks so much, I appreciate the supportive words. This chapter is dedicated to both of you!!!!


	5. Chapter 4

He woke late the following morning, for it was Saturday, but he was still in the midst of a murder investigation and so he went into the office anyway. His first piece of bad news was an owl from Rita Skeeter – on pale lilac stationary, and in green ink - requesting an interview about the case. Harry groaned. Who knew how Skeeter had heard of Wandsworth's murder, but of course it was full of the sort of topics she loved to write about – crime, licentious behavior, and Harry himself. No matter, Harry thought as he rumpled her note and threw it in the bin, that he denied every request for an interview she made – it seemed only to make her more determined to write about him.

The second bad news was a rather curt owl from the Figgert family attorney, explaining that they did not wish to speak with Auror Potter and would refuse to do so unless he provided the appropriate paperwork forcing them to do so. This Harry could easily obtain, under the circumstances, but if the request was handed in on a Monday morning it wouldn't be processed until Tuesday at earliest, and that would force him to wait three whole days. Harry hated waiting, and at the moment the Figgert's were his only lead. Grindling's had said Wandsworth had had a visitor who wasn't a member of his family – other than his parents, Frederick Chickering seemed the most likely possibility. Just in case, however, he also owled the Wandsworths again, asking for a list of all their son's friends at school and other close acquaintances.

He was rested his head in his hands and tried to think. Who would want Timothy Wandsworth dead: his parents, perhaps, whom he had disgraced; or his former lover, if they had fought for some reason, or if he had believed that Timothy would be a source of problems for him. Perhaps the lover's father, who ran the prominent Wizarding Families Association… or could there have been some gay wizard that Timothy had recognized at the club, someone trying not to be caught….?

That train of thought brought Harry up abruptly. That did seem possible. Malfoy, after all, was so concerned with being seen and…. one might be blackmailed over this type of information…

… could Malfoy have done such a thing?

Harry frowned. For some reason, it was difficult to think clearly about Malfoy. Harry's first instinct was to say that it was very unlikely, but in truth, he knew that murderers came in many forms – and he knew that Malfoy had, it was very likely, murdered before, during the second Voldemort rising. He would have known those spells – old Death Eater magic, the coroner had said, the type passed down in old familys. Was Malfoy sneaky enough to kill a boy, and then get himself assigned to the very murder investigation so that he might chart its progress?

He shook his head. He didn't know if he was being crazy or not, to think of such a thing.

Getting up from his desk, he went towards Shacklebolt's office, and was relieved to find the light on and the door open a crack. Shacklebolt, too, was working weekends.

"What can I do for you?" He asked, when Harry stuck his head in the door.

"It's about this case," Harry said, sliding in and sitting down in front of Shacklebolt with little formality. "Are you sure you want to keep Draco Malfoy involved in it?"

Shacklebolt looked stern. "I've already told you, Harry, that I hoped you would overcome your dislike of Malfoy to work together on this."

"Yes," Harry said. "Yes, I understand that, but… I'm starting to see how these places are: it seems that there are many wizards who might visit, attempting to maintain their anonymity. If Wandsworth had recognized someone, it might have lead to his death…. " he lowered his voice. "And since Malfoy is a regular, I don't know how he might be involved."

Shacklebolt looked at Harry for a long moment. "Malfoy was at a Ministry event with his mother the night of the murder." He said.

"I didn't know that."

"I wouldn't have asked him to work with you if I thought he was in any way involved. He is a more complicated person than you give him credit for, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "Kingsley, you know –you know – that the Malfoys are ruthless. If he were in some way involved in Wandsworth's death, it wouldn't be the first one."

"Harry!" Harry was shocked that Kingsley had raised his voice. "Harry, there are very many people who would take advantage of what happened in the past to create dissention. Malfoy and his mother were both pardoned by the Ministry – his father was not. With that pardon, came the promise that we would put the past behind us."

"I just don't like it, that's all."

Kingsley's sigh was like that of a lion. "I'm not asking you to like it, Harry. But I am telling you, that you will get nowhere in this investigation without Malfoy's help. I would strongly recommend that you trust him.

It was not pleasant for the Savior of the Wizarding World to be treated like an obstinant child. Harry reluctantly returned to his desk in a bit of a sulk. There was a new owl, a small, inquisitive pygmy, waiting patiently for his return.

Harry slipped the note from the owl's leg holster. It was written on heavy white paper, in a neat hand.

_Potter-_

_It occurs to me that you might like the opportunity to observe the Figgerts Jr. and Sr. in their natural habitat. The WFA will be holding a fund-raising gala tonight, and I've pulled a few strings to had us added to the guest list. Please arrive no earlier than nine pm._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry cursed. After a few moments, the pygmy pecked his hand, almost apologetically, and he realized that it must have been told to wait for a response. He rummaged for a piece of blank paper and scrawled off as polite an acceptance as he could manage.

That Aubrey Figgert's fundraising soiree was being held at the home of Godfried Goyle, a very well-to-do pureblooded wizard, was a fact Malfoy had neglected to mention in his presumptory little note. Harry was already on the doorstep of the manor when he realized where he was. It was also, however, confirmation to Harry of Hermione's statement the other day, of how seriously Figgert's Wizarding Family Alliance was being taken these days by the magical community. Harry felt distinctly uneasy as he entered the hall, since the name Goyle, for him, conjured images only of Death Eaters.

The ceiling of the stately ballroom had been charmed to with paintings of magical creatures that moved in slow motion against a pastoral backdrop, and the air smelled faintly of lilies and ginger. The room was nearly full by the time that he entered, having followed Malfoy's instructions to come at nine, although the event had been set, according to the invitation, for seven-thirty. Pureblooded witches and wizards, dressed in robes of every color – some fashionably ornate, some simple and elegant – all turned to look at him, and all though they regained their manners and turned away quickly, Harry could hear the buzz that began when he appeared, moving outward into the room like the wake of a ship spreading.

Harry hated such events. His dress robes itched, and he could not help be aware that they were not nearly as fine as what others were wearing. Because of his status as a hero, there were likely to be politicians and social climbers to be fought off at every turn, and what was more inconvenient was that, although his attendance at this event was purely professional, his appearance there was sure to be taken as a tacit show of his approval for Figgert's unpleasant organization.

Checking around the room, he saw Malfoy standing at some distance from him, next to a large young man swaddled in robes of dark green: Gregory Goyle, he realized with a start: another face Harry had been pleased not to run into much since the end of school. He had grown a bit since those days, and his expression had changed a bit since the war- as a school boy he had been stupid and cruel, in the context of a fancy gathering he looked more stupid and lost, like a rhino forced to sit down at a tea party and rather afraid to move for fear of breaking things.

"Harry Potter," the playful voice at his ear caused Harry to jump, until he realized it was Astoria Greengrass, the girl he had met the other day, at El Basilisco with Draco. She giggled at how startled he seemed.

"What a surprise to see you here," she said, in a voice that sounded teasing. "We are very honored, Mr. Potter.

"Thank you," Harry said blandly. "This is quite a party."

Astoria gazed over the room with a practiced eye. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" She said. "Goyle likes big parties, I suppose he thinks it impresses people."

"Does it?" Harry asked gently.

"Oh, yes, I should think so. Some people pretend it doesn't, of course, but…" she shrugged her slim shoulders, as if to say, they are only deluding themselves.

Harry shrugged too. He could see the charm in Astoria, he thought – it was hard not to. She was as delicate and pretty as a bird in her silky sea-foam robes. Her extreme self-absorption, which should have been repellent, was instead charming – perhaps because she was so matter-of-fact about it. In that sense – the thought sprang into his head, seemingly from nowhere, and he was surprised by it – she seemed rather like Malfoy.

"I didn't know Goyle very well in school," he offered. "I suppose Draco may have told you, we didn't really get along."

"Oh, I know all about that," Astoria tittered. "But no, I didn't mean Greg, my goodness. Do you not even know whose party you've been invited too?"

"Not Godfried Goyle's?" Harry said, carefully.

"Yes, that's right. He's Greg's uncle."

"Oh."

"You must know, that Greg's mother and father," Astoria's voice lowered as some of the guests around them were beginning to give them interested looks, "Are in Azkhaban. But Greg was just a minor when all that happened. He's on probation until he's 25, can't get access to his own money until then. His uncle is acting as executor, or whatever you call it when nobody's dead. _He_ moved to the continent years before even Lord Voldemort's first time around, so the Wizengamot thought he was a respectable guardian and executor for Greg."

"Oh," Harry said, digesting this bit of information quickly. He hadn't paid too much attention to Goyle after the war, except to note, with mixed feelings, that he'd been exonorated. "And is he?"

Astoria looked at him from under fair blonde brows. "Daddy says so. But then, Daddy also says that Godfried Goyle's spent more money of Greg's in the past four years, than Greg's father spent in a quarter-century. Oh, dear!" Astoria squeaked, more in pleasure at some excitement than true dismay. "Here he comes! I hope he didn't hear me."

"My dear Mr. Potter," a very large, towering giant of a wizard in uncomfortable woolen gray, and a very short, shiny fat man in robes of a violently jarring green, appeared before him. "How please I am that you were able to attend my little get-together. It's a very great honor for us."

This must be Godfried Goyle, then. Harry took his hand and thanked him for the invitation.

"And this is tonight's guest of honor" Goyle said, "May I present Mr. Audrey Figgert."

Neither Godfried Goyle nor Aubrey Figgert seemed too unhappy to have Harry Potter as their guest. In fact, they both looked like perfectly pleased hosts.

"Harry Potter, Harry Potter," Figgert said. "Defeated the Dark Lord all by yourself, did you?"

Harry offered a weak smile. Goyle looked mildly put out, as well he should have – in a room full of purebloods, one may have been assured that at least a few had been on the wrong side in the battles against He-Who-Shall-Not at least one of the two times that he made his appearance. He made his displeasure immediately known.

"Really, Aubrey!" he huffed.

Figgert gave her and then Harry a nervous look. "Of course, Mr. Goyle…"

_So one's Aubrey, and the other's ,_ Harry thought. Clearly there was some disparity in that relationship.

"Did you receive my owl, by any chance?" He asked Figgert politely. The man beamed again.

"Yes, yes. I'm so sorry about that, but the lawyer insists, you know. It's nothing personal."

"Oh course," Harry said warily.

"I suppose that the matter will now we dropped?" Figgert asked rather hopefully.

"Well, no," Harry said. The matter is rather serious, so I've put through a request through the department for a – ah –subpoena. It should go through by Tuesday."

"Oh dear!" Figgert said. "Oh, no, that won't do at all… my dear Mr. Potter…"

"_Mr. Figgert!"_ Mr. Goyle said, very sharply. Figgert looked surprised. "Surely you can discuss this later?"

Figgert, who seemed to be an odd mixture of belligerence and obsequiousness, frowned and then smiled. Godfried Goyle, who seemed a bit steadier or sharper than Figgert, asked, "Do you mind my asking what the meeting is about, or is it a private matter?"

Harry smiled blandly. "I'm sorry, but it's a matter of Ministry business."

"Oh yes." Goyle paused. "You are an auror, are you not…?"

Harry nodded briefly, and was about to make his excuses and turn away when Goyle said, "It's not about that dreadful murder, is it?"

Harry felt himself pivoting sharply on his heels. "Now, why would you say that, Mr. Goyle?" He demanded sharply.

Godfried looked unshaken. "The Wandsworths are old friends of mine. I am very pleased to hear that the Ministry is taking the matter seriously. I must admit that, under the circumstances, I was afraid they might think that poor Timothy's death merited less than the usual attention given to a murdered wizard."

"Not at all," Harry said. "We are doing everything in our power."

Figgert was looking back and forth between them now, a bit nervously. "What in Merlin's name are you two talking about?" He said. "Has someone been murdered…?"

"I'm afraid that's the matter about which I was hoping to speak to you," Harry said.

"I myself, of course, as a leading member of the WFA," Goyle said, "find it impossible to believe that any of our members would ever mistake our desire to maintain traditional wizarding values with the idea that harm against individuals who do not maintain those values. However, there may be individuals outside of our ranks that might think of doing such a thing… what has happened is very regrettable… I'm so sorry, but I believe I see someone I ought to say hello too."

With the finesse of a host used to working a large room, he excused himself. Harry wished to escape as well, but Figgert, apparently eager to talk to him, halted him before he was able.

"I understand you're a friend of Under-Secretary Granger's."

"Yes," Harry said.

Figgert laughed patronizingly. "She's a spit-fire, isn't she? She must keep her husband busy…."

"Ron?"

"Yes, you know… she's caused quite a bit of trouble for us, recently. Personally, I think a witch's place is beside her cauldron, but I suppose these muggle-borns have different ideas than you and I."

"My mother was muggle-born," Harry interjected, "… and I was actually raised by muggles as well." It was worth temporarily ignoring his disliked Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon to get that little jibe in. "And I fully support Hermione. I think what she's doing is wonderful."

"Oh?" Figgert said. "But surely you agree that we wizards are different than muggles. Culturally, I mean."

Harry looked around the room, filled to the brim with woman and men in long colorful robes. "Yes, the culture is different." He said. He noticed, as well, the ears carefully perked towards his and Figgert's conversation.

"Surely, don't we have the right to try and protect that culture?" Figgert pushed on. "Traditional wizard values are what have protected us for generations… I'm sorry, but witches like your little Mrs. Granger, who don't understand the subleties of pureblood culture, have no business in politics. They don't know what they're doing yet they wade right in, making a fuss without understanding anything in the first place. Her recent legislation just encourages wizards to give in to unnatural tendencies, to enter into other relationships with other wizards at a time when what is most needed are solid, traditional families. Ah ah – " he said, raising a hand to stop Harry from interrupting, "I'm not trying to say that the muggleborn don't have their place. I think we've all seen where that line of reasoning can take us. No, we need the muggleborn, because, with the way our birthrates are declining, we're positively finished if we don't accept them. Now, even your Mrs. Granger is married and, as I understand it, expecting a child. That's a very suitable role for her, no one can complain. I congratulate her and her family, and can only hope that the baby will steer her towards more suitable activities. Perhaps her pureblooded husband will learn to control her better as well."

"Those are my friends you're talking about!" Harry cried, enraged.

"Well, I'm not saying that they have bad intentions," Figgert said. "Though perhaps they do… but perhaps they are just ignorant. Let us hope it's only that. But, they must be made aware, before that ignorance destroys the wizarding world!"

"No," Harry said. He could feel his face growing hot with anger. "You're the one destroying us! Witches only in the house, no room for anyone different – how can creating such divisions strengthen us at a time when everyone must come together?"

His voice had raised louder than he had intended. Harry frowned, remembering that he was here as a part of an investigation – it was not the place to be airing his personal views. Still, he could not help but notice that the glances being thrown in his direction, especially by the younger people, were not all unappreciative. Figgert started to open his mouth again, and stopped when he heard a giggle from Astoria, who had apparently come back up behind Harry.

He glanced at Figgert, who was apparently making the same observation –people were laughing – and he recalled Malfoy's comment that FIggert was an awful little social climber, a man admitted into pureblood circles often as much for his amusement factor as for any true commitment to his politics.

"Mr. Potter," Figgert said, very coldly. "I think we will just have to agree to disagree."

"I think we will," Harry said, equally cold.

Figgert turned to stalk off, but after a few steps he swung back around.

"I can't help recalling," he said, jeering, "what someone once told me about your Mrs. Granger. She's famous for her ridiculous little causes, all the way back to… what was it? House Elf Liberation, when she was still a school girl? But we all know how that came out," he said, gesturing towards the house elf who served drinks. "I remember something else, as well – that all her campaigns stem from a personal motivation. That is, her experience with one house elf led her to try to free them: that it was her brother-in-law marrying a veela that caused her to take up Non-human rights. Perhaps there's a reason for her recent interest in Gay Rights, as well – maybe a famous friend in the closet?"

Harry did not bother to reply. He stared Figgert down, instead. He saw Malfoy in the crowd, watching him acutely. A small part of his mind was aware of exactly the picture he made – with pretty, feminine Astoria lightly clutching his elbow and staring at Figgert just as rudely, he was aware that Figgert's claim probably looked visually unconvincing – and, indeed, it seemed that it was, for the crowd seemed uninterested in his accusation, and turned away with sneers.

He didn't let even the slightest bit of hesitation slip into his features, although he felt ice in his fingertips and toes. Hermione did seem to choose causes that she felt were close to her.

What if it was true?

It didn't matter – Harry shook off the thought like a dog shaking water from his coat. He felt justified in the next fire-whiskey laced Manhattan that spun by on a waiter's tray, and had just turned to make a comment to Astoria when Malfoy seemed to sidle up, from nowhere, at his elbow. "What in the world?" He yelped.

"It seems that everyone is coming to get their hand shaken by the Boy Wonder," Malfoy said, sarcastically. "I thought that I might have a word with you, under the guise of doing the same."

"Well, thanks," Harry said, grumpily, "for the invitation. It's an awful party and I wish I could have avoided it, but I imagine that you're right and that it may be useful for the investigation, in the sense that it's given me a picture of the mindset of the enemy. The potential enemy," he corrected himself.

"I'm always right," Malfoy said, comfortably. "Don't you dare imagine that I want to be here either." He nodded towards Figgert, who seemed to be recovering – he was back to his game of following behind Goyle, nodding enthusiastically over her every comment. "He's a disgusting sycophant, and the worst sort of social climber. I don't know why Goyle supports him, except that he's always been a bit odd." He sighed dramatically. Harry couldn't help but laugh. Malfoy seemed a bit less wound-up than he had been before, or perhaps it was Harry who was less wound-up: he found himself unexpectedly feeling that Malfoy might be a bit of an oasis at this horrible party.

"I was thinking," Malfoy said, "let's go this way." He grabbed Harry's elbow lightly, leading Harry toward a corner of the room, where they would be out of earshot of the other guests. "I've been asking around. Both Freddy Chickering and his step-father had an alibi for the night of Timothy's death – Timothy's fiancé said they were eating with her family."

Harry was surprised. "That's pretty good for them," he admitted. "If what she says checks out as true." He thought for a moment. "All apparations are logged by the Ministry of Magical Transportation, I'm sure you know. None were made within a wide ring of the Cielo club the day of, or even in the week before the murder– but apparating to the place where you intended to kill someone would be foolish, so I think our culprit probably walked or used muggle transportation to go the rest of the way. If that's the case, then the Figgerts certainly wouldn't have had time to slip away for long."

"Right," Malfoy said. Was it just Harry's imagination, or was Malfoy leaning rather too close to him? "Although there are other means…"

"I know." Harry thought of time-turners, and polyjuice. "I'm not ruling him out, of course. However, it does weaken our case against him."

Malfoy considered this. "So, the Figgerts are still our prime suspects."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose so. Although I had another idea the other night," he let his sentence drift off as Malfoy seemed to be staring at him.

"What?"

Belatedly, Harry remembered that it might not do to be totally candid with Malfoy. "I don't know," he mutterd, finally. "Let me think about it a little before."

Malfoy frowned. His eyes were tracking a young man across the room. "You see there? That's Freddy."

Harry turned to look. Freddy Chickering was a young, pale man with dark hair. He was not attractive but nevertheless seemed to move with a great deal of self-confidence, for at the moment he had draped himself on the shoulder of a giggling young debutant in a pink frock.

"And over there is his fiancee," Malfoy pointed. She was a large girl with a slightly spotty face, who seemed out of place in her own fine yellow robes. Malfoy sniggered meanly. "We had a nice chat about owls, which apparently she's keen to raise. She's bookish. Not much to look at either, but perhaps Freddy was rather eager to confirm that his scandalous boyhood is well behind him. As I said, I've been asking around, and it seems his past history with Wandsworth is – well, the details aren't known, but everyone seems to have heard some rumor about it. But the story is that he was a good boy and reformed himself, and is now in deep and proper love with the young witch."

Malfoy was still standing awfully close to him. In the semi-secluded corner in which they were standing, it made Harry feel a little trapped. Ridiculous, he told himself, looking at Malfoy's thin body. I could take him down with one hand tied behind my back. But Malfoy seemed to have noticed Harry's looking at him and was now smiling, rather predatorily. Harry felt a wash of frustration.

"There is one other possibility," He said, consciously raising a new subject. "Another person entirely. Maybe a person who didn't even know Wandsworth." He stretched a hand before him, gesturing towards the party. "All these people, whether they believe in Figgert or not, didn't mind coming to a party on his behalf. Surely there might be one or two who really, truly believed in the kind of messages that Figgert is giving speeches about. That homosexual wizards are a real, dangerous threat. Someone mad, who decided to take the problem into their own hands."

"A random killer?" Malfoy took a step back, seemingly thoughtful. "How on earth would we track such a person down?"

Harry shrugged. "Different tactics. I'll have to look for people with records of smaller crimes – public disturbance, perhaps, at one of those rallies Figgert apparently likes to hold. The person who commits a hate-crime has a very different profile from an intentional murder."

Malfoy nodded slowly. Harry looked gloomily at his empty Manhattan glass, and considered whether he might already have gotten as much information as he was likely to from this gathering, and could go home. He was about to make that suggestion to Malfoy when Malfoy snapped his fingers, causing the waiter-elf to appear at his feet. Without asking, Malfoy plucked the glass from Harry's fingers, deposited it on the house-elf's tray, and took two new drinks before shooing the elf off again.

"Ah," said Harry, accepting his drink. "So that's how you get them to come over."

Malfoy laughed dryly.

"So tell me, Potter," he said. "You know far too much about me, and not having a bit of information on you in return makes me nervous. Was there any truth to that story that Figgert was spouting?"

Harry coughed, and a sip of Manhattan rose up, unpleasantly, in his throat. The coughing fit that that provoked gave him a moment for some quick, desperate thoughts to run through his head – what should I say?- before reminding himself that it didn't matter, he'd already had this conversation with himself, and he already knew how it would turn out. He simply didn't need problems in his life.

But, before, he could begin his practiced denial they were interrupted by Astoria Greengrass, who flounced over, her green robes bounding, to put a hand on Draco's shoulder.

"Draco," she moaned, rather prettily. "How _could _you go any leave me alone with Gregory for so long?"

Draco apparently caught sight of Goyle, who had followed behind Astoria. Goyle must have heard Astoria's comment as well, for his mouth was opening and closing, like that of a fish above water.

"So sorry," Draco said, taking Astoria's hand but still looking more towards Goyle. "I had some business here, with Potter…"

"And what could you possibly need to talk to him about?" Astoria pouted, and then turned to Harry. "No offense, of course."

"None taken." Harry said, and then, because Malfoy was looking rather shifty – though a moment later he was wondering why he had felt the sudden motivation to help out the git, said, "Actually, Malfoy has been helping me with a matter of… ministry business. Fiduciary," he added, with a flash of inspiration, as he thought something that sounded extremely boring might put off Miss Greengrass. It seemed to work, as well, because Astoria's bright eyes dulled a little, and she looked around as if ready to change the subject.

"Well, that's all right, then," she said. "Only Draco," she hissed at him in a loud whisper, "I do wish you would allow me to tell Greg our very exciting news," she leaned inward, and hissed, still so loudly that Harry could hear her with no trouble at all. "He's making himself very tiresome!"

"Ah, no," Malfoy said. "I don't really think that…"

"What news?" Goyle said, from behind them. He was staring at Malfoy with great, trusting, cow-like eyes, and Malfoy seemed to falter a bit as Goyle gazed at him.

"No, it isn't really anything, Greg. I'll tell you later, it's…"

"Draco and I are getting married!" Astoria announced, brightly, grabbing Malfoy by the arm and swinging around to face them. Her voice was loud enough to attract the attention of several of the individuals gathered around them, who looked at their group with interest. Harry felt shocked.

It was very interesting to see the expressions that played across Gregory Goyle's face. First it drained of color immediately, and he looked from Astoria to Draco as if he could not understand what she had said at all. Then it started to turn redder and redder.

"No!" Malfoy said, almost shouting the word. His attention was all on Goyle. "Goyle, no. It's just something our parents decided to discuss, without my consent, once or twice – hasn't gotten to the stage of being formalized. Nor would it." He removed Astoria's hand from his arm, and finally glanced at her. "I would never accept such a thing. I've been meaning to tell you that."

All around, the crowd was humming, though they now had something more interesting that Harry Potter's unexpected appearance at a fundraiser to keep them occupied. Harry, who had seen enough of his personal business splashed across the social pages to last a lifetime, felt a burst of pity for Malfoy, who looked as though he was preparing to face the whole business with the stoicism of a soldier headed off to war.

Then Gregory Goyle unexpectedly threw his glass champagne flute against the floor, where it crashed into a thousand angry slivers. He gave Malfoy one very angry, very hurt look, before turning around abruptly and stomped off. The well-dressed witches and wizards made space for him, and watched him with interest. One of the Goyle house-elves apparated in, saw the mess, and then de-apparated with a squeak, re-appearing a moment later with a dust-pan and broom. Malfoy continued looking stonily ahead.

Astoria was furious as well.

"How could you!" She hissed. "You've just – you've just made a fool out of me!"

"Your fault," Malfoy said, and saluted her with his empty champagne flute. "Don't say such things unless you're confident you won't be contradicted."

"I shouldn't have been." Her very pretty blue eyes narrowed to angry slits. "Don't think you can get away with treating me this way, Draco Malfoy."

Malfoy just dismissed her with a flippant gesture. She seemed on verge of screaming at him like a harpy, but seemed to collect herself as she noticed, again, the many people around them who were watching with interest. Taking up her sea-foam robes in each hand, she curtsied to Malfoy coldly and withdrew.

Harry, who had managed to back away as far as the wall, saw with interest how blank Malfoy's face was. He suddenly resembled his father, Harry thought, in the way that he stared coldly at the onlookers until they developed sudden interests in their hands or feet or other conversations. To his surprise, Malfoy then shrugged his shoulders, and returned to where Harry was standing.

Not wanting to make the moment any more awkward. Harry offered him his drink, and took Malfoy's empty glass when it was handed to him exchange. Malfoy downed the alcohol in one gulp, and then looked at Harry rather doubtfully, as if he had things he wanted to say but doubted that Harry was the right person to tell them too.

"That was… ahh… "

"Oh, shut it, Potter." Malfoy twisted his mouth as though he had just smelt something unpleasant. Harry saw, with a fright, Pansy Parkinson, whom he had not realized was even present, striding forward, doubtless to confront her old school-friend about what had just occurred. His nervousness must have showed on his face, for Malfoy gave him a scornful look.

"Yes, Potter, that's fine. Hurry up and escape."

Harry did just that.

Just wanted to say thanks to my kind reviewers for the last chapter: mandraco, Mdarkspirit, bakaneko815, and Damask Rose (again! thanks for 2 reviews).


	6. Chapter 5

The next morning, Harry woke to the sound of owls squawking. When he stumbled to the window, he could see an oversized Golden owl determinedly pecking at his Galahad. For some reason, Galahad seemed to have decided to prevent the Golden from delivering his letter, and wasn't permitting him to perch on the windowsill.

Sighing, Harry called Galahad off, allowing the Golden to strut forward very proudly, bowing a little as he allowed Harry to untie the letter from his leg, and then puffing his chest feathers as he strutted back again. From Galahad's nervous reaction to the creature, Harry had half expected a howler, but the white envelope seemed to contradict that. Slitting it open, he removed a business-like sheet of paper, beginning with the lines,

"_Dear Auror Potter,_

_I am writing to you in reference to the death of Timothy Wandsworth, which we discussed briefly last night. The truth is that I have some grave concerns over the matter: concerns which I did not feel I could comfortably raise in as public a setting as the fete last night. However, after much agonizing, I have resolved to contact you, and I hope that you will be free to meet with me, this morning at ten, at the Belladonna Club. I would further appreciate it if you could not mention this matter to Mr. Draco Malfoy. _

_Sincerely, _

_Godfried Goyle_

Harry rustled the paper between his fingers for a moment before sighing, and going to his desk to rummage for his own quill so that he could scribble a reply, accepting the meeting. It seemed an unnecessarily mysterious note – almost intentionally designed to pique his curiosity, Harry thought, and he resented, as well, the rather presumptuous pure-blood tendency to summon Harry. Still, he was a servant in the cause of solving his case. Rolling his reply up, he slipped it into the Golden's leg case. The bird waited patiently for his note, but, after it was fully attached, gave Harry's finger a sharp peck, which left him cursing, and flew out the window. Galahad squawked indignantly at his fleeing back.

The Belladonna Club was a Pure-Blooded conceit. Harry thought it yet one more example of the way in which Wizarding Culture, perhaps because of its conservative nature or perhaps due to the fact that Wizards generally lived longer than muggles, sometimes seemed more in step with muggle institutions of a century before than the current ones. The Belladonna club was a place where a certain kind of wizard – for witches could only be invited at the invitation of a member – went to read his Daily Prophet, commiserate over the world today with some very old school friends, take a coffee or perhaps something a little stronger, or peruse the Belladonna's famous library of mid-to late century tracts on Combinatorial Arithmancy. It had a very good restaurant, and a small number of rooms that could be used by members who, for reasons of some domestic disturbance or another, declined to go home in the evening. The staff consisted only of the owner and a small army of house-elves, who waited on every need of the members with a grim formality that lent an air of distinction to every proceeding which took place there.

Harry allowed a house-elf to take his cloak when he entered, and a second elf to lead him bowing towards the library, where, he explained, Mr. Goyle was already awaiting him. Harry caught the curious, mildly hostile glance of the old guard of pure-blooded wizards as the elf led him through the lobby of the club. He looked straight ahead, trying to seem unaware of their interest.

The library of the Belladonna club was very grand. Circular in form, its bookcases wound upwards for perhaps a hundred feet. At the top of the room was a dome-shaped stained glass skylight, through which streamed clear, golden summer light –although Harry, who had just been outside, knew that it was winter and that the sky was gray. In order to reach the books one might require, four graceful winding staircases slowly rotated around the edges of the room.

In the center of this room was a large table flanked by about eight comfortable chairs, and at one of these chairs, apparently reading that day's Prophet, was Godfried Goyle. As Harry approached the chair beside Goyle pulled outwards. Harry took his as a signal to seat himself, and the house-elf who had brought him in disapparated politely.

The night before, at the fete, Harry's impression of Godfried Goyle had been indistinct, perhaps overwhelmed by his more dramatic encounter with Aubrey Figgert. Now, however, he began to put the pieces together in his mind, forming a preliminary idea of the man. Guessing age, for example, could be a tricky game with wizards, but based on the fact that Godfried was Gregory's uncle, Harry guessed that his age was more or less what in appeared, perhaps in the mid-to-late forties. Not an old man, then, by any means - in fact, he had the look of a person with energy, a spring tightly coiled. He was large, but there was no fat on him anywhere – his hair was black, though grey at the temples, giving his appearance the right balance of energy with maturity. He was handsome enough to be a successful politician –and, if politics did turn out to be his game then Goyle was going into it at the right time, for politics, as the wizards played it, made him a young man, with many years in which to look forward to the development of his career. He might even be a good candidate for Minister in another twenty or thirty years – he was pure-blooded , which would appeal to those traditional families who still controlled so much of Wizarding England, but he had escaped association with Voldemort as well, making him more attractive to the liberal set as well.

Godfried Goyle closed his newspaper with a snap, and looked at Harry – clinically appraising, it began by at his boots and then slowly moved up, until he was staring into Harry's eyes. It was a look that Harry recognized, for he sometimes used a variation of it himself on suspects. It could be used to disconcert a person who was sufficiently suggestable, if, at the end, it was followed up by a satisfied little nod, it could convince a man that he had been judged an asset.

He said that he had information he wanted to share with me, Harry thought. But does he want to help me, or does he want me to help him? It was nearly always the latter.

Harry kept his gaze steady, giving little away: Godfried broke eye contact and hummed, low in his throat.

"Auror Potter," he said. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"Not at all," Harry said. "Any information you have about the investigation is of the greatest interest to me."

"Yes," Goyle drew the word out, and then hesitated. "The truth is, Auror Potter, I am unsure as to whether I have an information that may be of use to you at all, or not. You see, I am a man of fact, and yet – I must admit – I have asked to meet with you today because of a suspicion – a hunch, I suppose you Aurors would say – and it may be all my imagination." He paused, and frowned. "Of course, I do not think it is just my imagination. I wouldn't have called you if I thought that… I debated with myself for quite some time last night, let me assure you that…"

"That's quite alright," Harry said brusquely. "I understand, Mr. Goyle, and I will take everything you say with that in mind."

Goyle frowned. "I would have stayed quiet, only I did hear the story that you might be working with Draco Malfoy. Is that true?"

Harry frowned. He did not like interviews in which someone claimed to have information and then demanded repayment first. "That's not something I'm at liberty to discuss."

Goyle smiled sourly. "I understand. The thing is... well, you saw, I know, what happened last night. The… err… confrontation between my nephew, and the young Malfoy."

"I saw," Harry said, cautiously. "Of course, I don't know the story behind it."

"No. But indulge me: to an outsider, then, what was your impression? What did it seem was happening?"

Harry frowned. "I wouldn't like to speculate."

Goyle smiled again, a quick flash of white teeth. "I can appreciate that. Well, to speed things along, I'll tell you what the lovely witch I was escorting last night that night thought – she thinks that Greg holds a tendre for Miss Greengrass, and that he was upset at the implication that his schoolhood friend was stealing her away." He sighed, heavily. Harry felt bored. He wondered if this was why he had come, if Godfried was, despite appearances, a foolish gossip. "The thing is," Godfried continued, cautiously, "I'm not so sure that is what was going on. Now, I would never accuse Draco Malfoy of anything, for he has always seemed to me to be a fine, upstanding young man – working hard to prove to the world that his family is trying to atone for their mistakes during the first and second wars – but my nephew lives in the same house with me, and I cannot say that I have not seen signs, once or twice, that he did not hold an affection for Mr. Malfoy that was, perhaps… a bit more than what one might consider appropriate.

Harry felt his eyes widen.

"Now, now, I don't mean to say that I think it's ever been acted on, in any way," Goyle continued, hastily, "for as I said, I don't think Mr. Malfoy is even necessarily aware… I understand he feels a certain responsibility for Greg, since the war…" His face was turning red at the embarrassment of the subject. "However, I do know that Greg is rather…. well…." He stopped, apparently to collect himself. After a deep breath he put his hands on the table and went on. "You see, there was a time after the war when Gregory was very violent – it's all in his records, now, if you want to go and look at them. He was going out and attack muggles – finally he was caught doing this, and threatened with Azkhaban.

I had long known that Greg is capable of violence, Auror Potter. For a while, I thought that things were improving –Draco Malfoy somehow got him to see reason, and put a stop to his crimes against muggles – and Gregory seemed to reform himself, stopped disappearing, all of that. But soon he was swinging too far in the other direction. He began to rant against homosexuality, sometimes saying very coarse things. I believe he is… repressed. When I heard that Wandsworth had been killed, I must admit – this is where I must admit it was very irrational, for I have absolutely nothing to back it – my thoughts flew instantly to Greg, for he was not in the house the night that the boy was killed."

Harry listened to all this while Goyle unburdened himself in a great, nervous rush –a rush that contrasted sharply with the calm poise that Goyle had shown at the fete the night before. Finally, after Godfried Goyle had finished, Harry removed his small Auror's notebook from his pocket.

"Do you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of your nephew on Thursday evening, Mr. Goyle?" He said, quietly.

Godfried looked startled. "None at all", he said. I went to a small party in the evening, that lasted until about midnight. When I came home, Greg was not in – the house elves told me that he never returned until morning."

Harry nodded seriously. "I'll look into what you've said, Mr. Goyle. I can promise you the utmost discretion."

"Thank you." Goyle looked around him, apparently unsure of the correct protocol for such a situation. Finally Harry stood, and Goyle followed. He offered Harry a firm handshake, and then Harry left. A house elf waited at the door to the library, to escort him back out of the Belladonna club.

Leaving the club, walking into the brisk cold air and sharp sunlight, Harry shook off the persona of the professional, rather unintelligent Auror that he had assumed during his interview with Goyle. He couldn't help but wonder at the man. He wondered if he was being blinded by appearances, for something about Goyle's speech seemed better suited to appearing in the mouth of a nervous old wizard of eighty than a man as young and otherwise apparently in control of himself as Goyle. Furthermore, it seemed strange to Harry that Goyle had just spilled private information about his nephew to an Auror he hardly knew, when Harry was aware that Purebloods often hid secrets larger than murder to protect their families.

He checked his notebook again. He would have to confirm that Gregory Goyle had no alibi. His uncle had painted him as a homosexual, then a homophobe, and then a loose cannon, all in one swift stroke of the brush. And yet that didn't mean that none of it was true. When Goyle had dropped that glass on the floor the night before, all his energy _had_ been focused on Malfoy – none on the pretty Astoria Greengrass – as if was Malfoy was the one who had betrayed him.

He frowned. Godfried Goyle thought that his nephew held an unrequited passion for Draco Malfoy. The thought of something between Malfoy and Goyle was – very disturbing – but that didn't mean it was impossible. Harry had not missed, either, the night before, that as much as Goyle's energy had been focused on Malfoy, Malfoy's attention had been focused back on him.

He grabbed a sandwich and then went to put in a Saturday's work at the office, where his paperwork was beginning to pile up. He filed the appropriate reports on the Wandsworth, Grinding and Goyle interviews, and then, after a bit of thought, decided to report his attendance at Goyle's party using the same interview 45-F paperwork.

Then, after a bit of thought, he went to the archives, and pulled up past files for the Wandsworths, Freddy Chickering, Aubrey Figgert, Godfried Goyle, and, finally Gregory Goyle.

There was very little which was entirely unexpected within them. Both the Wandsworth and the Figgerts had very clean histories, the biggest transgressions between them being apparating with an expired license, and so forth. Freddy Chickering's record showed that he had withdrawn from Hogwarts' in his sixth year, but most of the information surrounding that event had been erased – that being standard procedure for incidents involving a minor.

Aubrey Figgert's record was significantly longer and more colorful. His numerous events were often controversial and therefore required an Auror presence, each event, the turnout, and any problems, were dutifully recorded. From the record, it seemed that Figgert had been active in promoting 'traditional wizard culture' since immediately after the fall of Voldemort. Perhaps because people had been fearful of becoming too involved in causes that promoted pureblood ideals at such at a time, his initial following had been small, and the initial auror's reports seemed to regard him as a harmless crackpot. However, within a few months, his numbers were climbing.

Harry could imagine why. Though, in reality, Voldemort's cause had had little to do with Pureblooded culture, the reality of the matter was that people associated the DeathEaters with Purebloods, and with the Order of the Phoenix, the winning side, with more muggleborn and half-blood wizards – who, coincidentally, also tended to fall on the more 'liberal' side of wizarding politics. The result had been, after Voldemort's fall, a certain amount of retributory persecution of purebloods. These purebloods had, in turn, turned to Figgert as someone who valued their traditional beliefs and told them that it was all right to take pride in such things.

In effect, in might have been the anti-pureblood backlash after the Fall of Voldemort that had created the atmosphere to Figgert's rise to prominence.

On a whim, he turned to Godfried Goyle's information before trying his nephews, but information on the senior Goyle was thin. He had left England early during Voldemort's first rise to power, and returned only after his final defeat. There was evidence of him in the form of occasional business letters from Germany, Hungary, and as far south as Albania, but information sharing between those countries and England tended to be irregular at best, meaning that Harry had little access to information about any activities he may have been involved in while oversees.

With a sigh, he turned to Gregory Goyle's file, which was by far the thickest of the ones he had removed from the archive.

The record revealed a few things Harry had not known, but very little of it was a complete surprise to him. The record began with transcripts of his trial after the second war, which had taken place in the first weeks after Voldemort's defeat. Harry remembered those days as a chaotic blur – after Voldemort had been defeated, the Ministry had very quickly fallen back into the control of allied hands, and there had been trial after trial, many of which he testified in, more that he could not bring himself to attend. The Malfoys, he had attended – he had attended Draco Malfoy's, one of the very last, and watched when Draco's sentence had been announced, and seen the blonde boy double over in relieved tears at learning that he would not face any more time in Azkhaban. Gregory Goyle's had been one of the first trials, and it had gone on for three days, as Hogwart's students, one by one, filed through to document his abuses – but Harry had only seen forty minutes of that trial, which were the forty minutes of his own testimony. He could not remember now if he had skipped the Goyle trial because he had had something else that he had needed to do, or whether he had simply been too emotionally exhausted at the time to do more.

At the trial, Goyle had not been sent to Azkhaban, but had had his property put into trust, and was put into the care of his Uncle until he turned twenty-five. Harry agreed with this ruling, for the Goyle estates were simply too large to be trusted to a young, ex-criminal. Since then, however, Goyle had been back in court five times, always for minor incidents, although their descriptions still made Harry's blood run cold. Twice, immediately after his trial, he had been caught at scaring muggles – apparently going into muggle parts of the country intentionally, for the sole purpose of finding a muggle to intimidate. The acts he had committed – levitating one, spinning another, and transmogrifying some of their personal objects into animals – were not so serious as to be called 'torture' by wizarding guidelines – in fact, none were any more serious than what most wizarding children experienced as pranks in school – but there was an underlying malice to them, a confusion, which concerned Harry. Goyle's sentence for both these crimes had been rather severe – he had lost his wands for several weeks after the second offence, and forced to attend multiple hours of muggle-appreciation classes as well as complete community service. Perhaps some of that severity, Harry noted, might have been due to the fact that no-one appeared to have attended the trials to act as a character witness for him – not his uncle, and not his friend Draco Malfoy, either. However, when he went back and cross-referenced the dates, he realized that Malfoy had still been awaiting trial in Azkhaban during that period.

And perhaps Malfoy's reappearance had helped Gregory in some way, for there were no crimes committed by Goyle for some time after Malfoy was released. When he did start getting into trouble again, the charges were minor and seemed to lack the cruel edge that Harry associated with the boy from his childhood. There were two charges of brawling (one had been dropped). Most recently, he had been arrested at one of Aubrey Figgert's events for hex-throwing.

Malfoy had been present, and spoken on his friend's behalf, at all these court hearings.

Harry remembered the Goyle of his childhood – the large, stupid boy, who had always seemed a goon to the slighter and slyer Malfoy. As children Harry had simply disliked them, but as an adult, he could not think back on Goyle without an oblique sense of regret. He seemed the type of boy who seemed damned before he was birth.

Harry shook his head. That wasn't right. He couldn't say much about his own childhood, and yet it hadn't defined who he became as an adult. So perhaps there was some hope yet for Goyle. He was still young too, and just as Harry had come to believe that his own friends had saved him, Goyle had – well – at least one friend, or lover, or something, in Malfoy –Merlin knew, Malfoy wasn't perfect, but he did, at least, seem to care for Gregory.

Harry did not bother to re-read Malfoy's file – he had already glanced at it when Kingsley Shacklebolt told him he wanted Harry to work with him. He already knew that it was conspicuously absent of the small types of misdemeanors that dotted Goyle's records – Malfoy had spent seven months in Azkhaban after the war, and then he had emerged, acquitted of the majority of his crimes for reasons of his youth. Like Goyle, most of the Malfoy fortune had been kept in trust for Malfoy until he reached his twenty-fifth birthday in good standing: through good behavior, and probably some political connections, Malfoy had gotten that requirement canceled, and had taken control of his family's money when he was twenty-two.

With a sense of clinical detachment, Harry opened the small folder he carried tucked inside of his notebook: the one that carried his notes from interviews and other information he might need. Inside the notebook he had already paper clipped several photos: the most recent one of Timothy Wandsworth that he had been able to find, individual headshots of Timothy's mother and father, Freddy Chickering, and even Aubrey Figgert.

Now he carefully used a copying charm in combination with a transformation spell, until a copy of Gregory Goyle's photo was ready to be added to his small notebook.

After a pause, he added a photo of Draco Malfoy as well.

He was distracted from his work by a light tap at the door.

Malfoy was leaning against it, in a robe a fine gray with a band collar. He looked elegant, and pleased with himself. Harry hastily shuffled his paperwork, covering his work with blasé reports about magical artifacts.

"The Figgerts called me," Malfoy said. "It seems they thought the threat of legal action would have caused you to forget about interviewing them, before, and now that they realize that's not the case they are less than keen to have their name on a subpoena. They told me that they would be free for an interview immediately."

Harry groaned. "Why did they call you and not me?" he grumbled.

Malfoy laughed lowly as he came to stand in front of Harry's desk. "I can't imagine," He drawled. "Perhaps they just felt more comfortable with me."

The flash of his white teeth and the way Malfoy leaned across the desk towards Harry made Harry vaguely anxious. Malfoy wasn't supposed to lean like that, wasn't supposed to laugh, low and rich, either.

Dedication – to Bakaneko! Thanks, it's nice to know I've got a reader out there! I can't promise anymore quick updates (now that the vacation is over…) but I've got this planned out now so I think the end is in sight!


	7. Chapter 6

They were allowed to come through the floo, and met by the same wizened house-elf who had annoyed Harry the day before: he bowed with much ceremony, in the way that house-elves always had, that made it look as though their heads might touch the ground and be too heavy to drag up again. Harry bowed back, rather uncomfortably, which earned an irritated look from the house-elf, and a muffled snicker from Malfoy. The day couldn't get any worse. The house elf led the way, and they followed, into a rather grand room in which the Figgerts had already gathered themselves.

The place was considerably larger and more expensively furnished than the Wandsworth's comfortable living room had been. Grisela Figgert, formerly Chickering, formerly Winderflame, was a rather sallow witch, with short dark hair, whose deep purple robes hung listlessly on her bony frame; Aubrey Figgert was the round and rather red figure Harry already remembered from the night before.

"I'm very sorry about the other night," He said, awkwardly, upon rising to meet Harry, although he did not look very sorry at all. "A touch too much of the Goyle's firewhiskey, I think. Please accept my apologies, the remarks I made were completely unfounded."

Harry nodded curtly, feeling the bile rise in his throat. The night before, Figgert had seemed an arrogant, posturing little man, and now he seemed like a slightly obsequious toad. Harry was well aware that very few men wanted to make enemies of him. From Figgert's pained expression, it seemed that he was as little pleased with Harry as Harry was with him: still, for the sake of the case he supposed they might play nice for a while.

Figgert and his wife both seemed a little more pleased with Malfoy, who greeted them charmingly, and allowed himself to be seated in an armchair with a smile. Harry scowled more.

Gisela's son Freddy sat next to his mother on the settee. He was just as think and yellow as she was although, perhaps because he was younger, he seemed a slightly better, more attractive copy, His hair was long, and brushed long in front of his face, which seemed to be the style these days. His expression was exactly the kind Harry did not like – he kept his eyes cast piously downward throughout the questions Harry put too him, pausing at times only to look, inquiringly, at one or the other of his parents.

"I made a grave mistake," He said simply, gravely, when Harry asked him to recount his relationship with Timothy Wandsworth. "At the time I was young, I didn't even understand how serious it was. I'm fortunate to my parents to have helped me understand the wrongness of what I was doing."

"So would you say it was you who led Mr. Wandsworth into error, or Mr. Wandsworth who corrupted you?"

Freddy Chickering spread his hands as if to show the futility of it. "Who's to say? Timothy was a friend. I think he wanted very much to have… someone understand what he was going through. And I simply didn't, as I said, understand the seriousness of it. I thought it was just playing games…" He looked repentantly at his mother, through lowered, long, black eyelashes. "I'm sorry, Mother."

"I know," she said. It was the first time a little maternal softness came through.

"So that was all," Aubrey Figgert broke in, abruptly. "Once the staff at Hogwarts informed us as to the situation –very lax of them, I believe, to have let things get as far as they did – we took Freddy home for a while. Once he was away from those bad influences, he very quickly came to rights. He hasn't spoken to Mr. Wandsworth since then."

"Yes," Harry said. He considered, but before he could say what he was thinking, Malfoy interrupted, saying it for him.

"Mr. Figgert, Mrs. Figgert I'm sorry, but we will need to speak to your son privately."

"Do you?" Mr. Figgert expostulated, while Mrs. Figgert responding with indignation, grabbing her son's shoulder and saying, "but he wants us here!" in a shocked voice.

Harry broke in with the Auror's-Voice that had served him so well before. "I'm sorry, Sir, Ma'am, but it is actually our policies in this type of investigation. We know that you aren't influencing your son's statement, of course, but a private interview will make this even clearer."

The Figgerts seemed to sag, but they took themselves up and left the room carefully. Potter thought he caught the hint of their son's smile as they took themselves away.

But before he could speak, that damn Malfoy interrupted again.

"So," he said. "Is that what really happened?"

Harry could not help but notice the transformation of the boy in front of them as he relaxed a bit, once his mother and step-father had disappeared. He leaned back against the couch when he had sat ramrod-straight before, and after a moment crossed his ankle over his knee. He looked Malfoy, and then Harry, directly in the eyes now, and when his hair fell forward in front of his eyes, he didn't push it back, but let it stay there, which gave him a slightly rakish look.

"Yes," he said. "More or less, it is."

Malfoy pursed his lips. Harry recalled then that Freddy Chickering had been a Slytherin as well, and imagined a sudden, funny image of the two of them circling each other as snakes, as each looked for the best tactic to take for the conversation ahead, the best way to strike.

"More or less?" Malfoy said, "We met with Wandsworth's people as well, you know. _He_ seems to have left home rather than admit your love together was anything less than pure and true. Did that kind of person really pull the wool over your eyes?" He asked mockingly.

Freddy's eyes flashed. "I just didn't see the harm in it, that's all. In going along with it for a while." He frowned, and slouched further, with a devil-may-care attitude. "I mean, I knew people would disapprove, but I didn't realize how bad it was going to be. I nearly got expelled – my step-father had to pull all kind of strings to get it changed to just a withdrawal. I'd always thought, you know…"

"So when you realize how deep in trouble you might've gotten yourself, you turned tail and waded out?"

Chickering looked annoyed. "What, like a Malfoy is going to try and preach to me about changing sides?"

Harry saw Malfoy's eyes flash dangerously, and wondered how good Malfoy's temper was, whether he was stupid enough to lose a stupid verbal battle with a kid who tried a cheap shot.

But Malfoy only smiled sweetly. "I never said that I didn't approve. It was stupid of you to have gotten yourself into the mess in the first place, but you do get credit for recognizing your mistake quickly. And people have done many stupider things for sex."

"Yeah?" Chickering gave Malfoy a look that Harry definitely caught – a slow, lingering once over, rather competitive, that made Harry's skin crawl. "Well, I've learned now, haven't I? If I want to have fun, from now on I'll do it quietly."

Harry's breath caught. He wondered, wildly, how much of an open secret Malfoy's homosexuality really was, if perhaps, despite what Malfoy had said, it wasn't really so well hidden. Perhaps one gay person could sense things about another…

But Malfoy only laughed, very dryly, a bit disgusted. "That's your prerogative, I suppose." Chickering looked slightly disappointed. "So, you did meet with him after he left school."

Chickering turned a bit sulky. "Once or twice. Not recently." Harry had not realized it was twice. "The last time was in September. He wanted –he wanted all these crazy things. He wanted me to go and live with him, with the mud-with the muggles." The end of his sentence came out as a whine, almost as a plea. Harry wondered, then, for an instant, if Chickering's part in the relationship had really been as the evil temptor, as the Wandsworth's seemed to see it, or as the devil-may-care teenager who was only experimenting, as Chickering seemed trying to be portraying himself. In that slightly agonized voice, there was some underlying emotion that for some reason somehow gave Harry the funny idea that Chickering might actually have _cared_.

"He's dead, you know," He said softly, speaking for the first time since Chickering's mother and stepfather had left.

"I know he's dead!" Chickering turned to him, raising his voice.

Harry let his voice become comforting. "We just want to catch the killer. To find out who did this to him. For that, we need to know – when was the last time you contacted him? Had you visited him in the muggle world?"

Chickering bit his lip. "No. I never did. I don't know anything about – about –living with muggles." Harry guessed that that was true. Chickering seemed like the type of wizard who couldn't even have gone into a Tesco and bought a chocolate bar if his life depended on it. And yet – his eyes slide over to Malfoy – he would probably have said that about Malfoy once, as well. And now Malfoy was apparently… no matter. The boy seemed sincere.

"Where were you on the night of January 5th?"

"I was at a party," Chickering said, simply. "With my fiancée. Miss Clarissa Gnomestone. My parents, and twently other couples there."

Harry nodded. Such an alibi was easy to check, and with so many people, it was the type that would be extremely difficult to falsify by magic. Should it be confirmed, Chickering was probably off the hook, for now.

"I think we've bothered you enough for now," He said, rising. Malfoy rose behind him. "We'll floo ourselves out."

Chickering gestured towards the floo with a, 'go-ahead' gesture. He looked paler than when they had begun, Harry thought, rather shaken. Perhaps Wandsworth's death really had had an effect on him.

Malfoy looked back before stepping into the floo. "Congratulations on your engagement," he said, scathingly. "I'm sure marriage will be a cover, to keep you safe."

Chickering looked shocked, but he didn't respond. Harry, judging that the chances that he would complain to the Auror's department about the comment were low, merely offered Chickering a polite nod, before following Malfoy through the floo.

In a moment they were back at the Ministry. What Harry desperately wanted was to somehow get rid of Malfoy, or at least find a way to get some useful information out of Malfoy about Goyle. What Malfoy seemed to want, irritatingly, was to chat. He followed Harry back into his office and flopped down in the chair in front of Harry's desk without so much as a by-your-leave, and began talking rather animatedly. His gray eyes sparkled. Harry felt annoyed, as always, with Malfoy. Harry had neatly compartmentalized him as a nuisance and Malfoy didn't seem to have recognized it properly.

Malfoy ran his hands through his hair and looked, animatedly, through some of the papers Harry had left on his desk. Harry panicked for a brief moment and then recalled that Malfoy's and Goyle's papers were safely tucked in a drawer somewhere.

"How interesting," Malfoy said. "I've never experienced anything quite like this before."

Harry had realized that Mafloy had a way of speaking that was never quite sarcastic or not sarcastic. It hovered somewhere between the two. As a result, he couldn't tell at all when the blonde was being serious about something, and when he was just making a joke of it.

"We do our best," he snapped, "to provide entertainment for you."

Malfoy gave him a surprised look. "I'm sure you do," he drawled. "My, Potter, it's been a long day for you, hasn't it?"

That was true, it had been rather a long day. Harry didn't know himself why he suddenly found himself wanting to pick a fight with Malfoy, who had more or less behaved himself very well during the interview – at least, it appeared that his tactic with Chickering had proved the correct one – Harry was not sure that he would have been so successful in provoking the young man into honesty. It had been a long day, but that didn't mean that Harry liked having Malfoy make the suggestion to him. He was on the verge of telling Malfoy to shut up and that he would see him tomorrow when Malfoy asked, in a deceptively casual tone,

"So, who are our prime suspects?"

For a moment he seemed just like a tow-headed child playing detective. Harry almost grinned, but then, remembering himself, he snapped out instead. "For Merlin's sake, Malfoy, it's a murder."

"Well, yes," Malfoy said, looked almost hurt. "I know it is. I'm trying to be helpful," He added, almost surly.

Harry ran his hand through his hair, thinking. Malfoy was watching him, and it was rather distracting.

"Yes. Well. The murder was planned, that much we know. Someone, a wizard that Wandsworth knew well from his past, contacted the boy a few days before his death. According to Grindlings, it wasn't Chickering, his former lover. Nor was it, we believe, one of his parents. However, it was someone that Chickering knew well – furthermore, it was someone Chickering may have believed had the capacity to help him. He asked Grindlings if he thought gay wizards would ever be accepted in England. Perhaps he thought that this person might help him gain acceptance."

Malfoy's eyes were still steadily trained upon Harry's face, but now the attention seemed to help Harry concentrate, rather than too distract him. It was rather surprising, Harry thought, that the blond was letting him speak.

"To me, that points towards Aubrey Figgert – or Gisela Figgert. Not Timothy's own parents, or Freddy, but still people who, had they been willing to accept him, could have helped Timothy return to Wizarding society."

Malfoy hummed. "But they would never do that."

"No… it would have been a ruse, you see; a way to draw him aside, and then to kill him."

"He would have been foolish not to see through something like that."

"Yes… " Harry considered. "Perhaps not the Figgerts, then. After all, his relationship with Freddy appears to have been long over… and it would have been very strange for Aubrey Figgert, the leader of the WFA, to have offered to accept his step-son's former boyfriend. Wandsworth doesn't strike me as quite so naïve."

A sudden thought struck Harry. The murder was premeditated, of that he was sure. But during his meeting with Godfried Goyle in the morning, the man had claimed that Gregory might have been violent enough, explosive enough, even, to murder in rage.

The man who had killed Timothy Wandsworth had carefully planned the crime, had arranged for signs of it to be wiped away…

Goyle didn't really seem clever enough to do all that, was he?

He was jolted from his train of thought by the ring of Malfoy's cellphone.

"Greg?"

Harry leaned back in his chair, pretending to be uninterested as Malfoy answered the phone to address, apparently, the person Harry had just been silently considering.

"No…. No, I don't think so. That definitely wasn't…" Malfoy's voice was calm and even. It was, it struck Harry, the sort of voice one might use to address a child. "No, never mind, I'll come over late and we'll sort it out."

Malfoy clipped the phone shut and smiled at Harry rather charmingly.

"Excuse the interruption," He said.

"Not at all." Harry said. "Does this mean that you and Goyle are… Er…. On good terms again?"

Malfoy looked peeved. "None of your business, Potter." He paused. "But I think so." He looked slightly relieved.

Harry was rather surprised when Malfoy, who had risen from his seat while talking to Goyle, came around to Harry's side of the desk and perched in front of Harry instead of just sitting down again.

"Quite a lot of documents," He said, admiringly, looking at the papers spread out around them. "What do all of them tell you?" Again, he was looking at Harry quite piercingly. He was trying to change the subject, Harry thought. Well, fine. Like fights between Malfoy and Goyle were of any interest to him anyway.

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "If it wasn't Aubrey Figgert, then I'm worried. It could be a random wizard – one who wanted to inflict violence against homosexuals, but didn't care who – or it could be someone who was seen some night at a club and didn't want Wandsworth to call him out…"

"Yes," Malfoy said, his voice rather amused. "I thought of that too. I thought perhaps you wouldn't trust me…"

Harry shrugged tiredly. "It seems we're stuck together for now… do you know anyone who might have been pushed into something like that?"

Malfoy looked pensive. "There are a few possiblities…"

Harry frowned. "But Wandsworth doesn't really seem the type to blackmail, does he? He seemed young – idealistic…"

"Before he'd been thrown out, though. He's had two years to become bitter towards those who were still leading a double life…"

Harry felt the beginnings of a pounding headache coming on. Trying to push it aside and concentrate, he closed his eyes. Neither possibility appealed to him. Most murderers were people who knew the victim well – family, friends or lovers. A random hate-crime, or a random act of blackmail – this would be harder for Harry to uncover. And he did want to wrap the case up quickly…

He was startled by the feeling of soft fingers on his brow, pushing his hair back away from his eyes. Without thinking, he grabbed Malfoy's hand, opening his eyes wide, only to lock unexpectedly on to Malfoy's gray eyes, which were only inches away from his face.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, Malfoy?"

Malfoy looked handsome, challenging, troublesome. "Testing something. " Without another word of warning, he pressed his lips firmly to Harry's.

Harry's mind went blank. Malfoy's lips were soft, but firm, and rather demanding. It had been a long time since Harry was kissed by anyone. Malfoy sucked his bottom lip and then, as Harry still failed to respond, swiped his tongue against it.

That was enough to jolt Harry back to reality. Forcefully, he pushed Malfoy away, throwing away the wrist that he still held. A quick glance reminded him, with relief, that his office door was firmly closed.

"Merlin's Balls, Malfoy, what was that!" He said, as loudly as he dared.

Malfoy looked rather speculative, and perhaps a bit pleased. Harry felt his whole face turning red with anger and surprise.

"I was curious," He said. He touched his own lips, rather thoughtfully, which made Harry go even redder. "You never did tell me if those things Figgert said about you at the ball were true. " He appeared to be thinking to himself. "You didn't kiss back, but you didn't exactly push me away, either."

"I did."

"Not at first. Not with…. Shall I call it, the indignation of the heterosexually righteous. I rather think," Malfoy shot Harry a look that was unadulterated satisfaction, "that Figgert might not have been so far off the mark about you. Am I wrong?"

Potter slammed his hand down on the desk. "I am not gay." He looked at Malfoy darkly. "I don't know how people behave in your circles, Malfoy, but if you ever do anything like that to me again I'll find away to…"

"What?" Malfoy looked bored. "Discredit me? Run to Shacklebolt, will you? Let Rita Skeeter interview you and say, Draco Malfoy tricked me into kissing him? You already swore a blood-oath that you wouldn't, and, worse - you'd look ridiculous."

Harry felt his face growing redder, if that was even possible. "Now, you see here!" He shouted.

But Malfoy was already on his way to the door. He had the nerve to blow Harry another kiss just before he slipped out.

Harry was left sitting alone – his thoughts far from the case, his face red, breath uneven, feeling discombobulated, foolish, and full of rage.

***

Thanks to Damask Rose! Very nice of you to continue reading/reviewing, I hope that the story doesn't disappoint you from here on out.

I am definitely almost done, I think only about 3-4 chapters more!


	8. Chapter 7

The following day, he entered the office nervously. Malfoy was supposed to meet him at nine, and Harry had spent the night planning strategies to deal with the bastard – the one he had settled on was simply to be cold, let as little emotion show as possible, and concede nothing. Malfoy might be a good guesser, but he could not work with material Harry didn't provide him.

Then – once the case was all over –he would simply be sure not be run into the man anymore. He had avoided Malfoy with generally little effort for the past several years, certainly, it wouldn't be a challenge.

Unless – the tip of Harry's tongue ran unconsciously alone his lower lip, just where Malfoy's own tongue had swiped against it – Malfoy went out of his way to look for him. But surely Malfoy wouldn't do that. If there was anything Harry had gained from the past several days of observation of Malfoy's character, it was the man was a typical spoiled pureblood brat – willing to manipulate and play games with others – Harry, at the moment, apparently – in order to entertain himself – but also immature enough to grow bored quickly, and self-possessed enough to know that games with Harry Potter might not be in his best interest.

Harry would simply wait him out.

When Malfoy arrived Harry's desk was overflowing with papers and scrolls.

The blond man entered his office through the open door without knocking to find Harry with his head in his hands. Hearing Malfoy enter, Harry grunted.

"You're late."

He was rather proud of his ability to keep his voice perfectly uninterested and neutral. He did not like the rather smirky way in which Malfoy sauntered in.

"I stopped for coffee. I thought you might require a … peace offering." A tall cardboard cup was placed in front of Harry.

Harry shrugged. "This, and we never to speak of it again." He picked up the cup and raised it cordially to Malfoy. "Deal?"

Malfoy looked slightly disconcerted, which pleased Harry. He had guessed - correctly, he thought – that Malfoy was expecting some more dramatic reaction out of him – either more embarrassment or anger.

But Malfoy's confusion was quickly smoothed away. "Sorry, _Harry_, but I can't promise that."

"Harry?"

"You can call me Draco, too," Malfoy added magnanimously. He had managed to transmogrify the rather uncomfortable second chair in Harry's office into a full-sized chair, and settled into it with a flourish.

"I thought we'd just agreed to keep things professional, Mr. Malfoy?" Harry said, very dryly. The very tips of his lips might have twitched slightly.

"If you insist, Auror Potter." Malfoy settled and sipped his coffee. Then he removed a scrap of paper from his pocket and thrust it, rather inelegantly towards Harry.

"What's this?"

Malfoy looked rather belligerent. "This is what we talked about the other day. A list of all the wizards I'm aware of who may be…. blackmailable… you will destroy it, Potter, when we no longer have need of it."

Harry glanced at the scrap with new interest. "Ludo Bagman!" He waved his wand at the open door with a bit too much force, it slammed shut. "A list like this would make Rita Skeeter wet herself."

"All the more reason why I am entrusting it to you, Potter, and not to her."

Harry couldn't have said why, exactly, but the words seemed heavy.

"Well," he said, awkwardly, gesturing across his desk. "Here's what I've got. The files of every WFA member with a criminal record – I even threw in everything as small as possession of a forbidden magical object. I figure, if someone out there targeted Wandsworth purely out of hatred, they'll be somewhere in this pile."

Malfoy shrugged in agreement, and reached over to take a file at random. Harry had to stop himself from telling Malfoy not to touch, that the files were confidential. Malfoy had produced the list of closeted wizards - that, in a way, was a show of faith. And Harry had been instructed to work together with Malfoy, which probably meant sharing resources.

He cleared his throat anyway.

"I know you know, Malfoy, but the sames rules apply. Any information you learn here is strictly for the investigation."

Was it just his imagination, or did Malfoy look slightly angry?

"I know, Potter."

"Yeah, well…" Harry bit back the unreasonable urge to apologize. He glanced at the list Malfoy had made again. There were about twenty names there – four at the bottom with question marks, three at the top highlighted.

"Bagman…" he said, thoughtfully.

"Doesn't have much to lose these days, I know," Malfoy piped in helpfully. "But I've seen him in several places, several times, and he's sort of a nasty type, you know."

"We'll shake him down," Harry decided. "subtly. Say that he was seen in that part of town recently, and whether he had any connection with the victim."

Malfoy coughed. "That's your idea of subtle?"

"Worry him a little bit."

"Hm."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

Before Malfoy could answer, the door to Harry's office opened and one of the pool secretaries put her head in nervously.

"Auror Potter," she said, "Mr. Malfoy. Something's happened."

Shacklebolt's brow was furrowed, and his hands clasped in front of him. He was sitting in a very still, very controlled manner, but Harry had the impression that, had he stood up, he would have begun pacing.

"," he said. "Auror Potter"– and the formal title was a sign of the seriousness of the business. "There's been another murder."

"Where?" Harry said. "Who?"

Shacklebolt rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Same club as before. Our MET aurors were on it immediately, since it was the same club. They haven't identified the victim yet, but there's a definite smell of dark magic around him again. The muggle police are still on the scene. I have a CSE badges for you and Mr. Malfoy to go down there at once."

Harry startled. "Wait," he said. "The same club? What time?"

"The body was found this morning. More than that, I don't have in yet. Ask the MET auror."

"We were just there," Harry said. "A few nights ago. We interviewed a wizard..."

Shacklebolt's eyes widened, but that was the only sign that he gave of being surprised.

Harry considered. "Two murders, Kingsley. Do you want to expand the size of the investigation?"

Shacklebolt frowned. "No."

"Are you sure? Just me and Malfoy isn't much for something that may be… may be a serial killer, or…"

Kingsley rubbed the arch of his nose tiredly. "I've thought of that, Harry. But this kind of murder… the truth is, I'm not sure how the public will react if it becomes big news. They might even complain that the energy of the auror department was being misplaced. I'd like to keep things quiet, if possible."

"I understand."Harry paused as something occurred to him. "Kingsley, I got an owl from Rita Skeeter about the case the other day."

"What'd you do with it?"

"Threw it out, never responded. You know that's what I do with every silly piece of trash she sends."

Shacklebolt nodded. "I'll have someone in the legal department send her an official reply. Hopefully she was only interested because it was you, Harry, and will lose interest."

***

CSE was the name given to the ministry of magic when it needed jurisdiction to work in the muggle world. The muggles thought it something like M15 –a secretive government agency with high levels of clearance. The police might grumble, but he would have full access to the crime scene as well as any information he might need.

"Two murders, both of gay wizards…" Harry muttered.

Ernie McMillian, the MET aurors on duty, waved to Harry as they arrived on the crime scene. Malfoy had grudgingly allowed Harry to change his robes, along with Harrys, into plain black suits. Dark sunglasses and earpieces completed their image. It was a bit clichéd, but it always seemed to impress the muggle cops.

Ernie introduced them to the muggle officers on the scene with a well-rehearsed roll of the eyes. It was part of the little game they played, that Ernie was the lowly officer, and Harry and Draco were the obnoxious CSE officers, sweeping in from nowhere to interfere with their case.

"Why is CSE interested in this one, anyhow?" Asked a short policeman whose dark brown hair was neatly tucked behind her ears. "Surely a death like this isn't a matter for national security."

"Er," Harry said. "It's…"

"Confidential," Malfoy said, oozingly, insinuating himself around so that he was suddenly flanking the policewoman on her other side. "I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I'm very impressed by the efficiency of your organization."

He smiled winningly, and while Harry rolled his eyes, the policewoman seemed suitably impressed.

"What's the situation, anyway?" Harry asked, mostly to shut Malfoy up.

Ernie gestured for them to follow him until they were standing out of earshot of the muggle policemen still at the crime scene, who had looked at Harry and Malfoy with undisguised dislike when they arrived. "Older gentleman. As I told Shacklebolt, there's magic around him. More than the other victim, but of course we didn't check for magic on the other victim quite as quickly – it was part of our routine follow up on cases last time, but this time we heard the address and made sure we got down here immediately."

"Think it was a wizard?" Malfoy said. Harry scoffed quietly.

"It's a little known fact," he said, "that in death, wizards and muggles are very much the same. Once magic leaves the body, it's impossible to tell one corpse from another."

"By normal means," Ernie added, briskly. "Of course there are a few tricks."

Harry nodded. "Where's the body?"

"Ambulance. I've got the drivers under a mild befuddlement charm, so as to have them wait until you'd arrived.

He led them to the ambulance and opened the back. Harry climbed up, a bit ungracefully, and then offered a hand to help Jenna into the back as well. Malfoy climbed in after and Harry noticed how easily he managed it.

The body was in a plain dark blue cloth bag. Harry pulled down the zip with a faint feeling of forboding.

Grindlings, who had been sallow and rather crane-like in life, had a corpse that was more gray than yellow. His face, his hair, his clothing – all seemed washed-out now, like a very old piece of parchment, and it was impossible to say if he now appeared as he always would have without the effect of his glamours and charms, or if it was only death that had caused the change.

Harry identified him stoically.

"A wizard," he said. "We know this one. Definitely better for us to handle it from here." He unzipped the bag further, exposing Grindlings to his feet. The man wore muggle clothing a bit more subdued, Harry thought, than he had when they had spoken to him. He cast his wand over the body, murmuring a spell to detect recent magic. Malfoy, without being informed that it would be all right to do so, found Grindling's wand, still clenched in his right hand, delicately pried it free, and cast a Prior Incantato.

"Furnunculus," he said, sounding slightly confused. "That's for someone who annoys you, not a mortal enemy. If that's the last thing Grindlings cast, he didn't know he was about to die."

Harry nodded curtly and cast another spell, one meant to detect magic in the vicinity of a corpse. He frowned when the tip of his wand glowed blue.

"Poison," he said. He cast another spell, and a thin blue line appeared, tracing down Grindling's throat and forming a pool at the level of his stomach. "A potion, then. Probably ingested."

"Not the same as Wandsworth, then," Malfoy said.

"No."

"Poison may actually be a bit better for us," Ernie pointed out. "If whats-is-name,Dwindles the coroner, can get enough of a sample, we can find out what exactly it was – sometimes that leads us to a potionmaker."

Harry nodded. Still, he felt glum.

"Something seems wrong," he said.

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. The Wandsworth murder was definitely premeditated, and this once appears to have been too."

"So?"

He spoke slowly, still sorting out his own thoughts. "Well… premeditation implies a target, doesn't it? I mean, someone you specifically want dead. But, if the same wizard or witch killed Grindlings as Wandsworth…without Grindlings even raising a fuss… well, it'd have to be someone who knew them both pretty well…"

Ernie looked confused, but Malfoy seemed to understand his train of thought better. "Not a hate crime, then, you mean."

"Not targeted just because of their sexuality, let's say. There must be something else that connects them."

"Ah." Ernie said. "Well, it's your case, Harry, so I'll let you do the detecting. Looks like a nasty piece of business, no matter anyway."

"Right," Harry said. "Can you send the body to St. Mungo's?" He asked Ernie. "Ask them to look for potions in his digestive system, and run a standard array of tests for other signs of magical harm as well, and to send the report to me as quickly as possible."

Ernie nodded, and removed from his pocket a large portkey, which she placed on Grindling's chest.

"Alicia is still here," he said. "She and I will see to the oblivating later. If you can only tell the ambulance men to listen to their radio and take the next call, they should obey you." He made a face, and Harry nodded in commiseration. Being a MET auror was psychologically hard work, which was one reason why no one was assigned the duty for more than half-year shifts. It was hard to spend all day working side by side with muggles that you might then be called on to oblivate at a moment's notice.

Pressing the portkey with the palm of his hand, Ernie used a quick spell to activate it, and both he and the body disappeared.

The temperature had risen overnight: it was now above freezing. The snow that had already mostly melted was turning to a gray slurry that soaked the edges of Harry's pants as he walked around the street outside. To make matters worse, it began to drizzle, a depressing cold rain that would soon have everyone shivering to the bone.

Harry and Malfoy went inside the club, to where a rather harried looking team of policemen were conducting interviews with several of the staff ofCielo – these individuals, it appeared, having been the ones to discover Grindling's body as they had been closing up very early in the morning. Harry overheard the same policewoman Malfoy had earlier chatted up mentioning to her collegue that, of the two CSE officers, one, "the blond one, quite looked the part – but the other seemed rather gloomy." After about an hour or so, Ernie came back and pulled Harry aside.

"By luck, Dwindles was in the morgue already when I brought in the body in. He's confirmed that cause of death was a poison. Not sure which, at this point. But he says to drop by later."

Harry sighed. He returned to the manager's office, where a policeman was interviewing a waitress. Somehow, in his absence, Malfoy had managed to take over the action, for he was now asking questions as the muggle officer looked on in annoyance.

"Yes, I did see Gibbons with somebody last night," she said, animatedly. "He's an old regular, you know, so we all," she blushed, "all the staff gossip about him from time to time. Last night, he was dancing with a lot of different people – all regulars, I think. But I think he came late, and left early, if you know what I mean. Maybe he had something else going on somewhere else."

Malfoy and Harry shared a quick glance. Malfoy had taken his sunglasses off and was toying with them as he spoke.

"Anyone you didn't recognize?"

"Noo…." The waitress considered. "That was all."

"How about recently? Who else had you seen him with, in, say, the last few weeks or so?"

"That's harder to remember. Gibbons is a social old guy, you know? He's always got a crowd around him and…." She wrinkled her nose. "He used to hang out with Tim, you know, that guy who got killed last week. I think they were friends."

"Tim?" The lone muggle officer in the room looked on in surprise. "Someone else was killed recently?"

She looked at him in wonder. "Don't you remember? You interviewed me last time too!"

"Umm…." Harry inched for the door. "You watch them," he told Draco, "While I get Ernie."

Ernie was outside, talking in a soothing voice to the another policeman. "Yes," he was saying. "It was just a broken window, probably a bunch of kids. The owner doesn't want to file a complaint. You're feeling hungry… why not ask Noreen if she'd like to grab lunch with you..?"

The officer grunted in agreement and trundled off. Harry explained the problem with the witnesses. Ernie groaned.

"I'm surprised the muggle aurors don't have brains like swiss cheese, as often as we oblivate them. It's dangerous, you know, and not that good for them. I suppose we'll just erase this whole night and morning from the lot of them, and then let those who knew Grindling's died naturally, or something."

"Fair enough," Harry said.

In the end, all the staff at the Cielo knew Gibbons well, but none remembered him with anyone particularly suspicious or oddly dressed. Harry took Gibbon's address, and then finally gave Ernie the go-ahead to obliviate everyone.

It turned out his apartment was only a short walk away. Although the drizzle had become a steady, cold, rain, neither Harry nor Malfoy suggested apparition. Harry performed a discrete anti-wetting charm, and was surprised when Malfoy didn't do the same.

"I try not to use magic when I'm in muggle places," Malfoy said, helpfully. "It comes a little too easily to me. A total prohibition is safer to prevent mistakes."

"Suit yourself," Harry shrugged. Malfoy was soaked, even in his fancy transfigured trenchcoat, by the time they arrived at Grindling's address, his white-blond hair plastered against his forehead.

The boy who opened the door for them was little more than a boy, really – perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two, at most. He identified himself as Marcus, and looked shocked when Harry informed him, as kindly as possible, that Gibbons would not be coming home.

"Oh my God." He said. "Oh my God oh my God oh my God."

"Are you alright?" Malfoy caught the young man by the elbow, and led him over to the couch. He sat still, for a long time, looking up at Harry with large, confused eyes.

"He's dead?" He said. "What happened?"

Harry explained, briefly, that his body had been found outside the club.

"Oh," said Marcus. "I thought… I thought, when he didn't come home last night, that maybe he was cheating on me. I never imagined it might be…."

"I'm very sorry," Harry said, as softly as he could.

"It's alright. It's just a shock. I mean, we were… but it's not like we were…" his face was blotchy, and he looked horrible. "Dear old Leon. How terrible. Do they know who did it?"

"Not yet," Harry said. "I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but was anything out of the ordinary with Leonard recently? Did he receive any strange visitors? Or talk of any visits he had made?"

"You think it was someone who knew him?" Marcus looked shocked. "Surely it's a hate crime, just like that boy Tim last week. Someone's out to get us, out around that club. It's not safe anymore."

"Perhaps. But still, we need to look into all the possibilities…"

Marcus screwed up his eyes in concentration, and leaned back against the couch. He was quiet for so long that Harry began to wonder if he was asleep. Then he made a sound, and sat back up.

"I think there was someone," he said. "You know, Leon never talked about his family much. He said they'd abandoned him, years ago, when he'd first told them he was gay- his friends too. It was harder back then, I guess, than even now. But a few days ago –Tuesday, was it? Or Wednesday? He came home in a pretty weird mood. Said he'd had a talk with an old friend, someone who had turned against him long ago." Marcus shrugged. "I thought maybe he was upset because it was only a few days after they found Tim – you know, that boy who died. Because he and Leon used to be pretty close before they had a falling out. But now that I'm thinking about it, the way Grindlings was talking he might have meant an older friend, someone from before he'd come out."

Malfoy looked at Harry. "Tuesday or Wednesday," he said. "That's after Timothy was killed."

"You think they might be related?" Marcus asked.

Harry shrugged. Then, as Marcus looked on, he went through all of Leonard Grindling's personal property – focusing especially on letters, and on anything that was magical. He found no evidence of any unexpected meetings between Grindlings and another wizard.

Then he confiscated those items in the house which were magical, and then he obliviated Marcus. He let the boy believe that his lover had died of a heart attack, on the bus. It seemed more honest than telling him that the man had run off to Bermuda, and kinder than the truth.

When they left the apartment, Malfoy was strangely thoughtful.

"Who do you think Grindlings met?" He asked.

Harry shrugged. "An old friend, the boy said. Grindlings had been out of content with the magical world for twenty years – perhaps he had siblings who might tell us who his friends once were."

"Yes." Malfoy sniffed. "Too bad he didn't leave behind a Pensieve."

The sound of a cell phone made Harry jump. But it was just Malfoy's phone, a ring that Harry was starting to recognize.

"Greg? Hello."

Even without listening closely – had he been pressed, Harry might have admitted that he might have been curious to what Malfoy and Goyle would talk about – Harry could hear that the person on the other end of the line was upset.

"No, Greg, calm down – it's ok," Malfoy said, shielding his mouth with his hand. "No, I can't come right now, but…"

Goyle said something that made Malfoy blanch.

"No, certainly not…. No. Don't even say that."

Without looking at Harry, he turned and walked swiftly into an alley.

"No – wait, listen. I'll be there as soon as possible, so don't do anything rash…"

Malfoy emerged from the alley again looking shaken.

"If you want to go, its fine," Harry pointed out. "I can take care of things from here, and I'll update you later on anything that happens."

Malfoy looked undecided. Harry felt a burst of sympathy.

"Really, it's fine. I understand – friendships are important, so…" he felt himself break off awkwardly when Malfoy gave him an unexpectedly sincere, small smile.

"Thanks, Harry," he said, reaching out quickly and clasping him firmly on the shoulder. Then, with a quick glance confirming that no muggles were in sight, he apparated.

Harry rubbed the spot where Malfoy's hand had just been. Although the first had been a joke, it was the second time Malfoy had called him Harry.

He wondered to himself what game the blond was playing, whether he was trying to trick Harry: perhaps drawing him in. But the only conclusion that really fit, when he tried to consider everything rationally, was the uncomfortable one that perhaps, really, Malfoy did just want to be friends.

He apparated himself back to the office and rummaged through all the files he had gathered until he found Grindling's. Previously he had only looked at Grindling's in the light of someone who might be a suspect, or a witness, but now he re-read the file, considering Grindling's as the victim.

Class of Hogwarts, a quiet record, unless one knew how to read between the lines – a few arrests for 'lewd conduct' in the early seventies, and then disappearance from the map. One sister, several years older, living in France – a teacher at Beauxbaton. Harry would try to floo her later, he decided.

He was just putting on his cloak, to head to St. Mungo's, when Malfoy apparated in with a 'pop'. He still looked a bit strung-up, Harry thought.

"Er – if Goyle doing a bit better, then?" He asked.

"I don't know, maybe, but – " Malfoy seemed to answer without thin king, and then, recalling himself, began to speak more composedly. "Please excuse me, Potter – I appreciate your understanding in the matter."

It seemed that Goyle was having an awful lot of trouble these days. Harry considered asking what the fuss was about, but it seemed clear that Malfoy did not want to tell him. Perhaps it was something to do with the girl, Astoria, that had caused the fight between them a few days before. Harry decided to change the subject. But, before he could do so,Malfoy did it for him.

"Do you think we had a chance, somewhere in there, to find out more, earlier. Perhaps we might have warned Grindlings. Saved him."

Harry frowned. It was a disturbing thought.


	9. Chapter 8

They apparated to St. Mungo's lobby, and headed down the narrow, moss-slick stairs to Dwindles' offices. The coroner was bent over Grindling's body when they entered the room, but he covered it with a sheet and removed his latex gloves, when he saw them come in.

"Auror Potter, enter!" He said. His eyes were shining. "Something is very interesting here."

Dwindles great enthusiasm for his rather gruesome profession was always a bit confusing when one did not know him well.

"Mediwizard Dwindles," Harry said, politely, as he nearly always was, "This is Mr. Draco Malfoy, you remember, who is assisting me on this case."

"Yes, of course, of course" Dwindles stared myopically at Malfoy for just a moment before wheeling around to walk towards the body. He probably saw Malfoy as another pupil to lecture too, and had very little interest in him otherwise. "Come and look at this."

He practically dragged them towards the body. Harry did what he could to maintain his distance, but Malfoy, seemed to show less compunction. He drew towards the body without hesitation – though his face did seem closed down, as he looked down on Grindling's pale skull.

"Have you identified the potion?" Harry asked, from his place several feet away.

"Yes," said Dwindles, "There was quite a bit remaining undigested. A unique potion, the signature is unmistakable. "

"Good," said Harry, with feeling. "Finally, perhaps, we're getting somewhere."

"However, I should say, something is interesting, quite interesting, about this particular brew…"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, sharply. Dwindles's eyes zeroed in on him, laser-like.

"Well, the potion in his stomach is Morbidius Manifestous, there's no doubt about that. Perhaps you recall its function…"

Harry waited crossly for the coroner to elucidate. However, Malfoy stepped in for him.

"It causes preexisting weaknesses in a victim to worsen. For example, it might lead a man with a heart condition to have a heart attack, or a man with poor arteries into a stroke. It was a common means of murder among wizards in the early twentieth century, because its victims died what appeared to be a natural death – until Sir Francis Widdlesbottom-Healthley discovered a detection charm in 1942.

Dwindles appeared delighted to have found a kindred spirit.

"Yes, yes, precisely."

Harry felt annoyed. "So what actually killed him was – "

"A heart attack, yes – or so it would appear to any muggle."

"And can you pinpoint the time at which it was administered?"

Dwindles frowned. "Well, within a twelve-hour window… I'd say after about four pm, and before morning."

"But then who? Who knew Grindlings enough to kill him, but also knew Timothy Wandsworth? Two gay wizards - that implies a lunatic, doesn't it – someone who hates gay wizards just for being gay – hates them enough, in fact, to want to kill them for it."Malfoy had gone very pale. "Someone," Harry went on, relentlessly, "who fed them poison, from his own hand, simply to enjoy the pleasure of watching them die."

Malfoy looked at him. "But before you said, it was someone who knew them both, it must have been, if the crimes were pre-mediated."

"Yes," Harry said. "What does that mean, do you think?"

Malfoy and Dwindles both frowned.

"What if the two murders are unrelated…?" Dwindles suggested, rather apologetically. "Morbidius Manifestous isn't a potion that's commonly used these days."

Malfoy grunted. "It's not easy to brew, either."

"Who would know it?" Harry asked sharply.

Malfoy held his gaze for a moment before answering. "Purebloods – it's the kind of potion passed down in family spell-books. Professional brewers would know it as well, but it would have been brewed to order."

"That's another link, then," Harry said, firmly. "Once we find the brewer, we'll find the killer."

***

They finished their discussion with Dwindles, and then flooed to the Ministry, Department of Estates, to look briefly over Grindling's will, although they did not expect to find very much of interest there. In fact, his possessions were extremely meager – everything that he owned was non-magical, and it had been left to the same sister Harry had read about before, the Beauxbaton professor.

It was already past eight o'clock when Harry finally decided that there was very little that could be done that night. Malfoy, surprisingly, stuck around for the boring foray into the Estates Department, and had was even helpful in deciphering the wizarding law that would determine the distribution of Grindling's minimal wealth.

As they finished, Malfoy ran his hands through his hair and yawned hugely. He seemed to have unwound from his tense state earlier in the afternoon. He seemed rather quiet, and thoughtful, and was looking at Harry as if he wanted to tell him something.

"Do you want to get some dinner?"

Harry stared for a moment. His first impulse was to politely say, "no, thank you", but he realized that Malfoy had just given up his whole day to stand in the damp and then go around and interviewed muggles, and that the blonde must be as bone-tired as he was. Furthermore, Malfoy had gotten him entrance to the club – and the WFA ball – and aside from a few snarky comments and the kiss, had done nothing thus far but be very helpful to Harry's investigation.

"Yeah, all right," Harry said. "What do you want to eat?"

Malfoy smiled mysteriously.

What Malfoy wanted to eat, it turned out, was curry. Harry was half mystified, and half amused, by the obvious pride with which Malfoy presented the small Indian restaurant to him: as if eating curry in London was a truly exceptional activity. To Malfoy, who had spent so little time in the muggle world until recently, Harry wondered if he didn't actually think that his discovery was impressive.

The look of pure delight on Malfoy's face when he took a bite of the steaming chicken vindaloo just placed in front of him was so comical that Harry had to laugh.

Malfoy opened one eye and gazed at him cooly, and Harry realized that the blonde was joking around, a bit. He was mildly shocked to realize that Malfoy now apparently felt comfortable enough with him to joke around.

"What is it?" Malfoy said, peevishly – but Harry still thought he could imagine that Malfoy was playing a bit.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "It's just, you, eating muggle food, in this muggle place, and looking so happy about it."

Malfoy sniffed, and managed to look a little offended. "What's wrong with that, may I ask?"

"Oh, nothing. Just that it's you, Malfoy. When you were a kid, I think accidently ingesting anything even remotely muggle would have had you sticking your fingers down your throat to get it out."

Malfoy put down his fork, and now he actually did look a bit offended. Harry felt glad. He had disliked, obscurely, the idea of _Malfoy _feeling comfortable around him.

"Well, what if I would have? People change," Malfoy added, softly.

"But not usually that much, Malfoy."

"Right."Malfoy looked at Harry. Harry had the uncomfortable sense that Malfoy was weighing him – trying to decide whether or not to say something to Harry, as he had earlier.

"Look," Harry said, "I think this is going fairly well, don't you? I mean, I was kind of unhappy when I heard I'd have to be working with you – figured we'd kill each other with in twenty-four hours. But it's been three days and I think we've managed so far fairly professionally."

Malfoy seemed to take interest in the last word. "Yes?" He said. "Professionally?"

"Yeah." Harry said. "I hope we'll catch the bastard who did this pretty soon, and then go back to our own separate lives." He looked uncomfortably at Malfoy. "I really won't tell anyone about you."

"Oh," said Malfoy, distantly. "Good. I wouldn't want to have to destroy your life, Potter."

It took Harry a moment to process the threat. He was taken aback. Malfoy's comment seemed a bit harsh, given that Harry was trying to be conciliatory. After a moment he scoffed. "As if you could."

"Oh, I could." All Malfoy's playfulness of a moment ago was gone, and he was eyeing Potter rather coldly now. If Harry hadn't known better, he would almost have thought that Malfoy was angry. What if I changed my mind about this secrecy business, for instance? Let word got out that I was gay… I could start naming names… claim to have had a famous lover, perhaps… how do you think that would read on the front page?"

He had picked up his knife, but rather than cut into his chicken he only looked at it dispassionately.

Harry gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Like what? You're saying you would tell people I was your lover?"

"I could," Malfoy looked at him penetratingly.

"No one would ever believe it." Harry said angrily.

"Oh no? We all know how the stories about you run in The Prophet. Poor Harry Potter, still single: they say you haven't had a girlfriend since Ginny Weasley…"

"That," Harry said, loudly enough to let Malfoy know he was serious. "Is Enough."

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, as if tired. "No, I don't really think it is. For the sake of this case, I've told you – a great deal, Potter. _Harry_." He almost hissed the name. "I've let you in on the biggest secret I have going right now, something I can't even tell my friends about. That's bloody terrifying for me – don't you dare think it isn't. I've given you names, and I'm – I'm – I'm being asked to put a lot of trust in you. And I know you don't like me and I'd like to laugh that off as silly and childish but I can't, because _every single person_ judges me based on who I was when I was _seventeen_ and _scared_."

His voice rose to a hoarse shout in the middle of this pronouncement, but trailed to a raspy whisper by as it ended. Harry didn't know what to say. Malfoy took another deep breath and began again.

"Since I've been observing you this week, let me say, _Harry_, how things look from my perspective. You try to act as if this case is just another day in Auror-Land for you, but sometimes you talk too fast and sometimes you talk too loud. At first I thought, typical nervous boring Gryffindor, but then I saw how you looked when we went to Cielo, how your eyes practically fell out of their sockets. I saw how you blushed when Sean flirted with you, and I _felt_ how you reacted when I kissed you, like you were fucking _terrified_ and not because some gay boy was making you uncomfortable. You're as bent as I am, Potter, I'd lay money on it. But, you don't want to level with me. Why should I be the one asked to put all my cards on the table, while you act so superior?"

He leaned back in his chair and glared mulishly at Harry. Harry felt that his whole face had gone as red as a lobster. He couldn't think, he couldn't think at all.

"I…" he said. "I…"

"Oh, shove it, Potter."

Neither spoke for some moments, and then Harry rose. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He didn't know what else to do. Malfoy's words were swirling around in his head, around and around, and he needed a moment to sit and clear his head, and he just couldn't do that with Malfoy in front of him, looking at him as if he was waiting for an answer.

"Fine, go home. Run away," Malfoy said, dismissively. "I know I'm right, though."

"I'm not – I'm not running away," Harry said, although the words felt hollow to him. "I don't owe you anything. Good night, Malfoy."

"Good night, Potter," Harry heard Malfoy said as he was already apparating away. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he thought that the man sounded a little sad.

He didn't plan it – he had been thinking of apparating back to his apartment – but he found himself standing in Ron and Hermione's living room instead. He blanched to think how distracted he must be: apparating like that was a quick way to splinch yourself.

"Who is it…?" He heard Hermione call, and then he saw her entering the living room, and Ron following her.

"Hullo," he said, attempting to make his voice sound hearty. "I thought I'd stop by for a coffee, if it's not too late."

But Hermione knew him far, far too well. Harry didn't know what it was that gave him away, but immediately she was running to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him as tightly as she could around her own big belly.

"It's alright, Harry," She said, simply.

"You can stay the night," Ron added.

Neither of them asked any questions.

Thanks to readers! This chapter is dedicated to Jinko, thanks for reviewing! Sorry this chapter is so short – I just ended up dividing things up this way because it seemed to make more sense story-wise, but I have all the very last two chapters drafted now so I will put them up very soon.


	10. Chapter 9

That night, the temperature dropped and there was snow again – the third time it had fallen that winter, wet and fat flakes that melted against the windowpanes as they hit. It was unusual, for Harry had seen many years in which snow had never fallen at all, or had fallen and melted before achieving any cover. Usually, he liked snow, but that night he slept fitfully, waking to hear the wind wailing against the windows of the room that Ron and Hermione always kept for him, tangled and sweating under layers of down and quilting.

But, in the morning, he felt brave enough to face Draco again.

He was not quite ready for Hermione, though. That, he could not quite explain – while Draco Malfoy should seem, at that moment, easier to talk to than his oldest friends. Perhaps it was because Malfoy's opinion of him had already sunk so low, apparently, that there was little way for Harry to raise it up again – and, therefore, in a way, very little he might say would really matter.

So he went to the office early, and waited, with rather anxious anticipation, for the arrival of Malfoy. He wasn't sure yet what he wanted to say, exactly – only that he felt very sure that it ought to begin with an apology. He felt that much of what Malfoy had said the previous evening was probably true.

...but the large hand of the clock slid past ten and Malfoy didn't arrive. Harry, who had been waiting for him so that they could floo to Beauxbatons together, started to feel anxious. He also wanted time to shake down a few of the shadier Potioners on Knockturn, to see if anyone had been in the market of late for Morbidious – although, if the killer was half-clever, he'd had done it himself. Does Malfoy think I don't want to see him anymore, he wondered. Should I go to where he is? He rummaged for Malfoy's card in his coat pocket – despite the days of abuse, it was still as unbent and pristine as ever.

"Malfoy Manor" Read the card. "No Visitors, Please."

Harry sighed. A minute or two later, there was a firm knock on his office door.

"Harry Potter, I presume." The long, elegant fingers of Godfried Goyle curled around the door as Harry opened it for him. "I had a bit of business here – hope you don't mind my dropping in on you."

"Not at all," Harry said smoothly, pocketing the card again. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to – well, no specific reason, really. I just thought I'd stop by and see how things were moving, since our last chat."

"Thank you," Harry said, politely. "But I'm afraid the case is still under investigation, so there's very little I can discuss with a member of the public. I apologize,"

"Of course, of course," Goyle said smoothly. "Actually, though, I didn't mean the case so much as the… ah… other matter we had mentioned."

Harry waited patiently.

"That is… my nephew."

Goyle looked around the room rather nervously. "You see, he didn't come home last night. Of course he's an adult, but… I'm not sure, Auror Potter, but something about him is just off, these days. I know you've been working with Mr. Malfoy, I didn't know if perhaps you'd heard anything…"

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, "But Mr. Malfoy and I do not discuss personal matters… we are merely working together…"

Gregory Goyle sighed heavily. "I hesitate to ask," he said, "but you have cleared him of any involvement in the murder of the young wizard? I told you before how very… anti-homosexual he can be."

Harry tightened his lips. "I think it is highly unlikely, Mr. Goyle, that your nephew is involved."

He was planning, at that precise moment, to give Godfried Goyle a bit of rope on which to hang himself – at least, to try and make the man's intentions clear. He would claim not to suspect Gregory, and see what piece of information Godfried produced in order to make his nephew seem more culpable. It was perhaps unreasonable, but for some reason Harry was beginning to hope, very much, that whatever information Godfried produced would turn out to be false, for Harry did not want Gregory to be guilty.

But, before he had a chance to say anything more, the door creaked open, and a secretary pushed her head in to call Harry out of the room for a moment.

It seemed that Gregory Goyle had just confessed.

He did it (so it was explained to Harry) by walking straight into the Auror's offices, and informing the secretary on duty that he had murdered two wizards the previous week. The secretary very sensibly sent for Shacklebolt at once, and then, knowing the only murder investigation corresponding to what Goyle described was Harry's, she sent for him as well.

Harry made his apologies to the Uncle and hurried him out of the Auror's Department and then hurried to the witness interrogation room.

Gregory Goyle was a large young man, but he was hunched into one of that room's rather small and uncomfortable chairs. Shacklebolt sat across from him. Goyle jumped up so violently that he almost knocked his chair over, when Harry entered the room.

"They didn't tell me it'd be _you_," he said.

"Who did you think it would be?" Harry said, surprised. "Surely you know that Malfoy's been working on this case with me."

Goyle looked surprised. "He didn't say exactly what…" he finally admitted, shiftily.

"So, you want to confess to these crimes, Goyle?" Shacklebolt said, staidly. "Can you tell me why you did it?"

Goyl shrugged awkwardly. "I get confused, after – since the war." He looked awkwardly at both of them. "I get angry, and sometimes I lose my temper. Sometimes I forget stuff." He looked belligerent. "Anyway, I want to confess."

Harry and Shacklebolt looked at each other. Each shrugged minutely.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"With Veratiserum?"

Goyle stiffened slightly, but then nodded.

Shacklebolt called one of the secretaries to bring a dose. They all waited, awkwardly, while she arrived with the small vial and handed it to Goyle. He downed it in one gulp, and then looked around. When his pupils grew dilated, Harry knew that it had taken effect.

"For the record, can you please state why you are here, Mr. Goyle," Kingsley intoned.

"To confess to… two murders." Goyle slurred.

"Who did you murder?"

Goyle shrugged. "Don't know their names. Two wizards. Both… his tongue seemed to catch on the roof of his mouth for a moment. "Cause they were faggots."

Harry felt his stomach tighten at the nasty word.

"Why did you do it?" Kingsley's voice continued, relentless.

Goyle just shrugged. "Just 'cause."

"Like when you hurt those muggles?" Harry asked, his throat dry.

"Yeah!" Goyle brightened. "Yeah. I didn't know people would get so upset. I mean…" he didn't go on, but Harry understood. Goyle was not and had never been the brightest star in the sky. He had spent a year before the war ended as a junior death-eater torturing his fellow classmates at Hogwarts, and the sudden transition of the behavior from acceptable to unacceptable had been entirely confusing for him.

Harry felt supreme disgust. Goyle was a nasty piece of work – always had been, always would be. He could see that Malfoy had improved, changed, but why was he still –

Harry stopped himself. Goyle was sitting in front of him, as guilty and confused as a child caught misbehaving.

"And these ones," he asked, deceptively gentle. "Can you tell me why you killed them?"

Goyle put his head in his hands. "I don't know," he said. "I just remember how I got angry. I thought, stupid faggots, might as well be squibs, better off dead, and then I just planned out how I was gonna do it. The first one I cut'em with a spell we use to use during the war, and the second one I poisoned."

"Why them?" Harry said.

"I knowed they was gay, fucking fairies, that's all."

"How did you know?"

Goyle shrugged. "I just knew it. The little one, I guess I must've remembered hearing about him, and the other one…"he shrugged. "I must've heard it somewhere."

"Where'd you get the potion?" Harry asked. "How'd you know the spell? Why'd you decide to go to that place and start doing that?"

With the veratiserum, it was too many questions for Goyle to start answering all at once. He looked perplexed. "I dunno," he said. "I just…. I didn't even remember doing it, I just woke up in the morning and it was all there in my mind, I knew I'd done it. I blank out sometimes, Draco tells me – Draco tells me I must've hit my head one to many times during the war." He looked truly miserable. "I promised him I wouldn't hurt anyone anymore, but then I went and did it and I…" he mumbled. "I wanted to confess."

"Why?" Said Harry. "Why do you wish to confess?"

Goyle looked confused again. "I just didn't know what else to do."

Kingsley closed the door to the interrogation room softly, leaving Goyle to snivel alone inside and begin to let the veratiserum wear off. He loked at Harry seriously.

"Well, what do you think?"

"He didn't do it."

"No," Shacklebolt said, firmly. "I agree. He didn't even know the names of the victims, or how he came to identify them. But he believes he did it himself, and apparently whatever placed the memories in his mind was good enough to fool the Veratiserum." He frowned. "I don't like that, not at all."

"I think it may have been the uncle," Harry said. "He's been behaving oddly, going out of his way to tell me stories about his nephew being violent, things like that. He was just here now, in fact. It didn't make sense, but perhaps he was trying to plant some suspicion in my mind. "

Shacklebolt looked grave. "Godfried Goyle is a well-respected member of the community, Harry. If you have reason to suspect him, investigate quietly. We can't pull him in until we have absolute proof in hand, or it'll be a public relations disaster."

"Whereas someone like his nephew, who's already been written off…"

"Yes." Shacklebolt growled. "I understand." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Get more evidence, Harry. Let's see what we can do. In the meanwhile, I'm going to release Gregory."

"Will he even accept that? He's trying to confess."

Shacklebolt frowned. "I'll tell him we're taking his testimony under consideration, all of those things. I think he'll accept it if I use my most official Head Auror voice."

Harry smiled, but it felt wan, even to him.

He went outside, and was relieved when the secretary informed him that Godfried Goyle had departed without incident. It was hard to cast any sort of hidden spell within the Ministry, but just to be safe he cast a few detection charms around the office to be sure that the man hadn't left any charms or spells behind.

He checked his watch. It was past noon, and Malfoy still hadn't come in. Perhaps he thought Harry would be angry.

It didn't matter. There was work to do now, Malfoy would have to wait. He went ahead and flooed Fionella Grindlings, interested to see what information she might have for him.

After that talk with Grindling's sister, Harry checked Malfoy's card again. It was still set to the manor. Harry felt very impatient. He put it at the corner of his desk as he worked, to check every few minutes. As soon as Malfoy left the Manor, Harry determined, he would apparate to his location, so that he could give him the updates on the case. At very least, he was sure that Malfoy did not know that Goyle had tried to confess – Goyle had said himself that he had decided to act without his friend's knowledge.

He was beginning to realize more and more that he had never truly known Draco Malfoy. Goyle himself was proof of that. Harry's friends had never been hard to like, but perhaps what made Malfoy redeemable was that he hadn't given up on his friends, even when they had been – well, ignorant, wrong-headed, malicious, there was nearly nothing at all to like about Goyle, as far as Harry could tell. And Malfoy had improved Goyle – he had stopped the attacks on muggles, at least, tried to teach him a bit more about how to live.

It came to Harry, then as he was turning Malfoy's ivory-coloured card between his fingers for nearly the hundredth time, that although a murder was, perhaps, the ultimate evil which it was impossible to undo, that the murderer himself might still desire redemption. He had never entirely believed that before, and yet, to think of Goyle and Malfoy, suddenly he did.

When Malfoy's address on the card finally changed to "Available" Harry jumped up to apparate. However, only a moment later, Malfoy himself was already at the door.

"Where have you been? " Harry said immediately. "Things have just broken wide open."

"What?" Malfoy was pale and the skin around his eyes was pinker than usual, so that his eyelids appeared bruised. He rubbed his brow.

"You look tired," Harry said.

Draco looked startled. He shrugged, diffidently. "What do you mean?" He asked. "Do you mean, you know who's done it?"

Harry nodded grimly.

"I think I may. I just don't know why" He laughed, oddly. "Or quite how. Strange, usually my cases get solved in the reverse way."

Malfoy gaped. "Well, don't just keep me in suspense, you moron, tell me!"

Harry flicked his wand to pull over the chair in the corner of his office that Malfoy had transfigured to an arm chair the day before.

"Sit down," he said. Malfoy did.

"I think I owe you an apology," Harry said, quietly. "I thought about what you said last night. I think you were mostly right. I have had a lot of preconceived notions about you, and I do…," he paused. "I don't know. I do owe you a bit more than that. I'll try to be fairer in the future."

Malfoy leaned back. It seemed that some of the tension left his body.

"So?" He said.

"So." Harry paused. "In answer to your comment last night – I suppose I probably am gay. I mean, I am," he corrected firmly. "I've never even kissed a man, or anything like that, though. I wasn't… " he paused, and turned so that he wouldn't have to face Malfoy's gaze. "I suppose I wasn't ready to do that."

"Why not?"

"Huh?" Harry frowned.

Malfoy looked a bit vicious. "You were afraid, weren't you?" It wasn't really a question. "Of not being the world's golden boy anymore. You didn't want to face all the shit that gay people deal with."

"Oh," Harry gave a short, bitter laugh. "I don't know. That wasn't really it. I'm not afraid of what people might think about me, I don't care. I just didn't want to be gay at all. I wanted a normal life, and a family, and, you know, all that stuff you grow up imagining for yourself. I didn't see how I could have that if I was gay, and I figured that in that case none of it mattered at all anyway." He ran his hands through his messy hair and shrugged. He felt very exposed, standing in front of Draco, though perhaps the fact that Malfoy was seated in the large recliner in the pose of a relaxed pagan god while Harry moved back and forth across the room was part of what created that effect. "I suppose I thought that denying it might change it." He struggled, " But maybe I owe them more." He looked sharply at Malfoy. "Maybe _we_ owe them more."

Malfoy's face pinched a little, but Harry began to pick up speed. "Wandsworth, Grindlings – however many other men and women. Hermione's been saying that for years, but I never really – I never really thought about it properly before. You and I, Draco- we have, I don't know, a bit of celebrity, money – those things don't matter, I used to think, but we could make them matter…" he began to break off as he realized that he was rambling. Malfoy was looking at him with a very peculiar expression.

"You're so ..." he frowned. "You're such a stupid Gryffindor, Potter."

But the way he said it was rather fond. All at once, Harry felt like grinning, so wide that it would split his face. The dam had broken, things were changing, there was _energy_.

But then the moment faded.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps I should have told you first, but I've let my own issues get in the way of work. Malfoy, you have to tell me what's been going on with Goyle."

"Goyle?" Malfoy looked confused for a moment as his mind shifted gears. "I've haven't been able to get a hold of him since the other day. He's been acting strangely, though I don't know what that has to do with anything…"

"He came in, this morning. He tried to confess to both murders."

"What?" Malfoy's eyes opened wide. "No, that doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't, anyway. He didn't know much, but he – he seems to remember the crimes. I think it was his uncle, only I'm not sure how… " Harry returned to the chair behind his desk and sat down. "I didn't tell you before, but Godfried Goyle came to see me after the party. He claimed it was because he thought Goyle – Gregory, I mean -was dangerous or maybe needed some help. He said – well, a lot of things, even that he might be in love with you." Harry hurried awkwardly over that last bit. "Anyway, I think now that it was a ploy; that he was trying to get me onto Goyle's trail. I think he believed that we would pick up Goyle, test him with Veratiserum, find him guilty, lock him up, case closed. He confessed with veratiserum this morning."

Malfoy looked shocked.

"He confessed with veratiserum…?" He said, slowly.

"Yes, but I think – I don't know how, anyway, but I think somehow the memories were planted…"

"Yes…" Malfoy almost hissed the word. "Potter, why didn't you tell me any of this before!" He jumped up from his seat.

"Er… sorry?"Harry said. "Since it was your friend, I didn't feel that it would be prudent to tell you…"

Malfoy laughed hollowly. "Godfried Goyle is a worm, Harry. He's been after Greg's money for years. Greg nearly signed it over to him at one point– he didn't understand…" He frowned. "You should have told me right away."

Harry nodded. "Well, we know now, anyway. And I've more evidence. I spoke to Grindling's sister, and she confirmed that he and Godfried were in Hogwarts together, the same year and the same house. She couldn't remember if they were friends, but they must have been. That was how he knew Grindlings. And Wandsworth, he said himself that he was a friend of the family."

"Right," Malfoy said. "So he killed the two of them off to frame Greg."

"It would have seemed reasonable to him, I think. Gregory's been attending the WFA meetings for years, so he has a record of being opposed to homosexuality – he also has a history of violent crime. And, in brutal truth, it was probably the right kind of murder as well. A muggle murder might not even have been noticed right away. But a wizard who had lived among muggles for years – especially for the reasons Timothy and Grindlings had – one might expect a very perfunctory investigation. Well, Kingsley did only assign one Auror to the case. Now that I think of it, the magic he used to commit the murders, old pureblooded and deatheater spells, might have been an attempt to point us in Gregory's direction as well."

Malfoy blanched. "I never liked those WFA meetings, but I never tried to make Goyle stop attending. I thought that would be – to risky a thing for me to call attention to. Perhaps I should have told him about me. Merlin knows that I know all his secrets – but of course I never trusted him with any of mine."

"I think all we need is some proof that Godfried did it," Harry said. "I suggest we try to trace the origin of the potion. Do you know if Godfried brews his own potions?"

Malfoy frowned. "I wouldn't think so. But he's lived on the continent for a long time, so he may not have gotten it in England, either. I don't think you'll be able to trace it."

"Too bad," Harry said.

They mulled over the information for a moment.

"Well," Malfoy said. "For once in my life, I'm oddly relieved to have Greg locked up in jail. Although usually I'm trying to get him out, it's good to have him safely away from his uncle for a while."

Harry frowned.

"What?"

"Er,"

"What, Potter?" Malfoy asked again, more sharply.

"The thing is… Kingsley had him released after his interview… told him to go home and rest, I believe."

They both looked at each other in sudden panic.

"Godfried was in here again his morning," Harry said. "I told him I didn't think Gregory was involved."

Malfoy opened his eyes wide. "Merlin!" He closed his eyes tightly, as if I pain. " The potion will be untraceable and Godfried Goyle will have an alibi for both murders as tight as drum. The only real evidence you've got linking him to the crime is his odd behavior, and the memories that are locked up in Gregory's head, that his uncle somehow put there…"

Harry stood up. "If the memories are the only real proof we gave, then if Gregory disappears…"

Malfoy nodded grimly. "He's far too powerful a man to get convicted on circumstantial evidence."

"Where is Greg now?"

"I don't know."

Malfoy flipped out his cell phone. Anxiously they waited as the call went through – rang three times, and then was disconnected." He grabbed Harry's sleeve. "I'm apparting us to Goyle House," He said.

"Wait a moment," Harry lifted his hands around his neck, removing a thin chain upon which rested a small key. "Gringott's first."

***

Ok, almost to the end (man, that fanfiction shutout this weekend was annoying!) On the plus side, I have the final chapter almost edited, so I will try to post it asap.

This chapter is dedicated to Bakaneko817, thank you, thank you, thank you for your very kind reviews, which I do not deserve. Now that the end is here I hope it won't be disappointing!


	11. Chapter 10

***

After their brief stopover at Gringott's bank, where Harry had removed a small parcel that, without answering any questions from Malfoy, he shrunk to the size of a pack of cards and put into his pocket, he allowed Malfoy to apparate him to Goyle House. They appeared outside the door. "Damn," Draco said. "I used to be allowed through the wards, but they've changed them on me."

Harry knocked on the door loudly. "Aurors," He said. "Please, we need to speak to you,"

After interminable moments, a shaky house-elf opened the door.

"Please, is Gregory Goyle home?" Harry asked.

The elf shook his head, mutely.

"Can you tell me we might find him?"

The elf shook his head again. "Twitsy doesn't know, sirs."

"What about Godfried Goyle? Can we see him?"

"Master Godfried is at work, sirs,"

"And where is work?"

"His offices are on Diagon Alley, Sirs."

Harry looked at Draco. "Should we try that, then?"

But at Goyle's office there was nothing but a confused secretary, who blinked at them several times before remarking that her employer had not come in at all that day, an event which was most strange.

They held a hurried conference in the hallway.

"Do you think she's lying?"

"I'm not sure. Why would Goyle lie about not being at work if he was? He must be somewhere else."

Harry frowned. "Where else might Gregory be?"

Draco frowned. "I'm not sure. The last time I spoke to him, he was upset again about Astoria."

"Astoria?" Harry said, stupidly.

"She wrote him a letter, or something, asking him to meet. I told him to ignore it – she's a child, you know, who likes to play games, and he's not bright enough to…"

"Let's go see her, then."

Draco nodded in agreement, and took Harry's sleeve again. Harry ignored the slight brush of energy that went through him when Malfoy's hand brushed his wrist.

Astoria received them very readily, leading them into the sitting room of the Greengrass Manor very gracefully and clapping lightly, to ask a house elf to bring tea. For a moment Harry hoped she would be helpful, but he soon saw that she was still angry with Malfoy.

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea where Gregory is," she said, haughtily. "And, I must add, I think it's quite rude of you, Draco, to try to come and ask me about that. I'm still waiting for your apology for the other night," She added, pointedly.

Malfoy appeared to grit his teeth very slightly. "I'm sorry," he said, charmingly. "I should have made things clear to you before, rather than allowing our parents to make plans I never had any intention of…"

"Why not!" She interrupted hoarsely. Quickly she returned her voice to a dulcet tone. "What's wrong with marrying me anyway?"

"It's just… can't we keep this for another time, Astoria? For now it's very important that I know what happened between you and Greg."

"No!" She said, and this time a small glass vase shattered, causing Harry and the house elf to jump. "No, it can't wait, Malfoy! You'll marry me, and that's final!"

"I won't," Malfoy said, gently. "I really am truly sorry, Astoria. I never realized you even cared for me seriously, or I would have explained things better."

"But what's wrong with me…?" She cried out. Harry found himself feeling badly for her. She looked so miserable, huddled in the corner of the sofa like a small animal, ready to lash out.

Malfoy looked serious. "I'm only going to say this once, Astoria, and if I hear stories I will know where they came from, do you understand?"

She nodded rapidly.

"I have no intention of marrying _any _woman. Ever." He cocked his head a bit. "If I did, dear, you would have been the one I choose."

She looked mystified. "Ever…?" She echoed. "You wouldn't have chosen Pansy Parkinson?"

Draco almost smiled. "No, not Pansy. No woman at all. Now do you understand?" He paused. "Now can you tell us about Greg?"

Astoria seemed to collect herself. She wiped her eyes and glanced haughtily at Harry, as if she had just remembered that he was in the room and was daring him to comment on what he had seen.

"Well," She said, finally. "He did come by here yesterday. He was very upset. He said…" her voice dropped to a melodramatic whisper, "That he loved me, and would I ever forgive him, and he said a lot of other things too. I'm afraid," She looked a bit guilty, "that I might have laughed at him a little. I told him I didn't care for him, and - oh, Draco, I'm sorry! But I just don't, you know that, I know he's your friend and all but Greg is awful!"

"What happened after that?" Harry prodded slowly.

"He left, that's all," She said, simply. "I don't know, I haven't seen him since." She thought for a moment. "One thing that was odd was that he kept talking about my letters. He said he kept all of them. I never wrote more than an invitation to Goyle, so I don't know why he was so hung up on those…"

"Yes, that is strange," Draco nodded. "He said something to me about a letter too…"

He looked sharply at Harry, and then back at Astoria. He stood, as did she, and he fondly kissed her on the cheek.

"We've got to go," he said. "Astoria, please tell me immediately if you hear anything from Greg. It's very important."

She nodded dumbly. Harry nodded to her, awkwardly, and they left.

Just as they were walking down the steps outside the house, though, she emerged, calling to them.

"Draco!" She said. "I just realized. When you said before, you wouldn't marry _any_ woman?" She looked white with surprise. "Does that mean …?"

Malfoy merely nodded curtly in reply, and then apparated away, too quickly for her to say anything more. Harry looked at the place where Draco had just been, and then up at Astoria, who was still staring in surprise. Their eyes met for a surprised instant, and then Harry apparated too.

As he appeared in the office, Malfoy was already pacing and cursing.

"Merlin's Bloody Balls!"

Harry didn't know what to do for a moment, so he stood by dumbly.

Malfoy turned on him.

"Do you realize what this means, Potter! Do you?" He looked furious.

"Er… maybe she won't say anything?" Harry suggested weakly.

"Ha!" Malfoy snapped bitterly. "That girl's never kept her mouth shut ONCE in her whole life. Plus, she was a Slytherin. She's loves gossip too much to be a successful blackmailer… " He ran his hand through his hair. "I can't believe it. I'm finished. By this time tomorrow, I'm… I'm…"

Harry put his hand on Malfoy's shoulder, awkwardly reassuring. "It's all right. You did it for Greg, so…"

Malfoy looked at him with miserable eyes. He sat down in his ridiculous armchair and put his hand over his eyes. He sat like that, without moving, for more than twenty minutes. Harry began to feel increasingly nervous.

"It'll be alright," he said, awkwardly.

"No," Malfoy bit out. "It won't be alright."

"It will. We'll find some way to…"

"To what, Potter?" Malfoy got up, ran his hands through his hair until it was smooth again, and then sighed. "Come on. Let's go back to Goyle House and see if we can find anything about those letters."

The same house elf greeted them again. He looked extremely surprised and displeased when Malfoy demanded access to Gregory's quarters, but apparently the Young Master had left previous instructions that Malfoy was allowed in even when Goyle wasn't there. The elf drew the line at Harry, however, who was forced to wait in the foyer.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, Malfoy came quickly down the stairs, a sheath of messy parchment clenched in his hand.

"I think this is it!" He announced, excitedly.

He and Harry bent over the pages. Each note was short, written in an elegant female hand. They were each warm, and flirtatious, and the one nearest to the top – the newest, Harry inferred, mentioned a potential elopement.

_My Dearest Gregory,_

_I'm sorry I was so beastly and cruel to you the other day. The truth is, I am afraid to admit how I feel in public – were my father to find out, I'm certain he would find some way to keep us apart…._

"What total bullshit!" Malfoy expostulated. "No one but Greg would believe this kind of…" He looked at Harry sadly.

"Is it her writing?" Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. "I don't… I'm not really sure."

Harry swore. "Look at this last letter," He said. "They've been coming every two or three days, but the last was sent just after Goyle's party… there may have been one more."

Malfoy summoned the elf, who had been waiting, glaring at them all the while, in the corner of the room.

"Did Gregory receive any owls today?"

The elf looked obstinate.

"It is not Flipsy's place to be telling you sirs anything."

Malfoy clenched his teeth, but Harry had a sudden idea.

"Flipsy ,is it?" He knelt down. "Flipsy, who is your master?"

The elf appeared to consider, and then decide that the information had no value.

"Flipsy has been sworn since birth to the House of Goyle," he said, proudly.

"Yes," Harry said, firmly. "That's very admirable. But Flipsy, who is your master _specifically_,"

The elf half-closed its eyelids over its huge, bulbous eyes, looking sly. "Flipsy is sworn to the head of the family, Sir."

"Godfried Goyle?" Harry guessed.

The elf looked frustrated. "Godfried Goyle is saying that is true, sir. But Flipsy is knowing…" seemingly self-conscious, he corrected his grammar. "Flipsy knows that the line is passing from Gregory Goyle to his son Gregory Goyle. Only because the Wizengamot is saying Master Gregory is not the master until he is 24. But Flipsy knows that he is the real master." He said this last with a puff of breath, and then looked all around, as if nervous that someone unseen had heard him.

"I see," said Harry, sympathetically. "You see, Flipsy, the thing is… we believe Young Master Gregory is in great danger. It would help us a great deal if you could tell us what mail he received this morning… what visitors… if anything else was out of the ordinary."

Flipsy looked very nervous indeed.

"The Sirs _promise_?" He said, plaintively.

"I promise," Harry said, firmly. After a moment, he looked sharply at Malfoy, who was looking down at him with an expression of confusion on his elegant face. Malfoy appeared to recover himself. "I promise too," He said.

The elf sighed slowly. "Flipsy is knowing that Master Draco Malfoy has always been a good friend to Young Master Gregory Goyle," he said, softly. Although it was Harry who had appeased him, he looked at Malfoy as he relayed his information.

"Young Master Goyle has received many letters, always from a small gray owl," he said. "He is thinking these owls is from Miss Greengrass, but Flipsy is thinking she keeps a different owl. Master Gregory is thinking she has two, but Flipsy is thinking…" he moaned. "It is very sad," he said. "Master Gregory received an owl this morning, but it came when he had gone to the Ministry. He read it when he came back, and then he left again. Flipsy does not know what the letter said, because he tooks it with him."

"Flipsy, this is very important. Do you know where he went?"

Flipsy shook his head.

"Flipsy is sorry, Sirs, but he does not."

After they left Goyle's again Malfoy paced like a tiger in a cage. Harry tried to think of something to say to calm him, but didn't know what.

Malfoy stopped after a few minutes. "I've been trying to think," he said, "of every place I know that Goyle might be. But nothing that comes to me seems quite right. I just don't know… don't you Aurors have any tracking spells you can do, or something?"

Harry shook his head. "Unless either of them uses magic large enough to create a magical signature we can track, or apparatus somewhere – before we left, I asked the department to send me an alert when that happened, but there's been nothing so far…"

Draco frowned. "The first spell they detect will be the one that kills him."

"Yeah."

They were still in front of Goyle Manor. Watching Draco pace, Harry felt terrible. He tried to think as well, of where Goyle might have taken his nephew, but if Malfoy, who knew him so well, couldn't think of anything, what chance did Harry have of… "Maybe Cielo?" The thought came to him in a flash.

Malfoy whirled around.

"I've been thinking about what Goyle said to me. He tried to paint his nephew as a homophobic criminal. But he also said some things, as if he meant to imply that the whole reason Goyle was so homophobic was that he was closeted himself."

Malfoy just stared at him.

"Well," Harry said, clearing his throat. "The Auror department released Goyle this morning. So it must be clear to Godfried by now that we aren't buying his story about Goyle being the murderer. He's got to get rid of Goyle to get rid of the memories, the evidence. So isn't the next logical step to kill his nephew, and make it seem like the third in a series of hate-based crimes…?"

Malfoy's face was as white as a sheet. He came up very close to Harry, so that their faces were only inches apart. It would have been intimate if not for the extreme desperation painted on it. He grabbed Harry's collar, and for millisecond Harry was confused as to what was happening, before the dark warp of Malfoy's apparition took them, and he found himself falling to the ground behind the Cielo dumpster, confused.

"A bit of warning next time!" Harry said, but Draco was already shushing him.

"Both Grindling's and Wandsworth's bodys were found over there –" Harry whispered, more quietly. "Grindling's in the alley, Wandsworth's in the park."

They set towards the park at a jog, not bothering with transfiguring their robes, although it was daylight and there were people out, who looked at them oddly as they passed by. Harry kept his wand tucked at his side, to make it less noticeable, and he noticed that Draco did the same.

When they neared the park he felt at once the quiet muffling of charms, both the types to dissuade casual passersby and the types to hide magical activity and magical signatures. Of course, Harry growled to himself. He should have paid more attention to the park – hidden some detection spells there, at least. It was such a good place for a murderer to go unnoticed that of course Goyle would have decided to use the location more than once.

He started forward, but Draco put out an arm to stop him. "Wait," he said. "He's got charms, too, that'll give him warning if anyone enters. Let's go around the side."

There was a gate to the east and to the west, carefully, crouching down so as to be out of site, they made their way to the eastern side and peered in.

All was quiet grass and lush, dark trees. There was no sign of any movement: in fact, it looked as peaceful as Eden.

"Blast this," Malfoy said, "There's no time." He looked at Harry. "Follow behind me, but keep your signature quiet, all right?"

Before Harry had time even to process what Draco had said, Malfoy was unshielding his magic. He walked directly into the garden, raising his wand as he did so and speaking a spell that made half the charms in the place sizzle and pop. There was no way that anyone in garden was yet unaware of his presence.

Harry waited a few moments, and then, quietly the small pack he had earlier taken from the bank, resizing it as quietly as possible and then unfurling the cloak of invisibility, which he normally kept locked away at Gringott's for safe-keeping. Draping it over his shoulders, he quietly followed Draco into the park.

There was a small ring of trees, and then a path of the sort usually populated, at that time of day, by joggers and people with dogs. Now, however, it was strangely empty.

Draco strode forward, down the path, wand in hand. His black robes cut the air behind him. Harry followed behind, feeling like a ghost, when suddenly Draco ran, as if surprised, behind a tree.

In the woods between the trees Harry saw then a small clearing, in which two figures stood before what appeared to be a common muggle birdbath.

Draco crept towards it, and Harry as well, as quietly as possible so that no branches cracked beneath his feet. Less visible than Draco, he moved ahead of him, ready to surprise Godfried from the front as Draco appeared from behind. As he drew closer, Harry saw that the two figures were, indeed, Gregory and his Uncle. After another few meters, he could hear their low conversation.

"It's better this way," Godfried was saying, "think of the honor of the family."

"I don't care about that,' Goyle replied, speaking more loudly and snuffling as if holding back damp tears.

"Put your memories into the pensieve," Godfried said, "and then take this knife."

Goyle seemed confused. He looked from his uncle to the birdbath, and then back again. Harry came around the other side of the bath and saw the silvery liquid that filled it. Godfried Goyle wished to extract a confession from his nephew before killing him. From Harry's perspective, it made grim sense. With Gregory alive, a good Healer would surely be able to prove that the memories had been false. With him dead, a Pensieved confession along with the actual memories of the crime would be hard evidence to contradict, no matter how much Harry or another might suspect the uncle.

"I don't want too…" Goyle quavered.

"It's the best way…"

Harry waited. He was sure that Malfoy was waiting too.

With a sigh, Goyle bent over the pensieve, and allowed it to draw in his thoughts – the thoughts of the murder, which Harry was sure, now, had never been his to begin with, but must have been planted their by his uncle. As the Pensieve filled, Godfried seemed to relax slightly, and gripped the knife a little tighter.

Goyle looked at his uncle with miserable eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's done."

"Take the knife, Gregory,"

Goyle looked at his uncle uncertainly.

"Do you want to go back to Azkaban?" His uncle hissed.

"No!" Gregory seemed to speak with fright. "No, but…" His fingers inched towards the knife, but then drew back.

Harry waited, as he was sure Draco was waiting too. Godfried's hand was on the knife, his wand by his side. Harry was sure he would take up the wand as soon as his nephew took the knife, but there would be a brief instant when he would be unarmed, and that was when Harry intended to strike.

Godfried seemed to be impatient. "Take it, Gregory," he said, firmly. "This is the only way."

And Gregory seemed to agree, for he nodded his head and wrapped his large hand around the hilt of the knife.

But, just at that moment, a movement or a sound must have alerted Godfried to the presence of intruders, for he pulled the knife back, slicing a clean, deep gash through Gregory's palm as he drew back, taking his wand in his other hand as he did so.

"Revelius," he called, in a strong voice, and the trees around Malfoy drew back, to reveal him, standing with wand raised.

But Godfried spoke more quickly.

"Aveda Kiev-" He cast the spell on Draco so quickly that Harry didn't have a moment to move, but it didn't matter, because Gregory's large fist came from nowhere, slamming into his uncle's face so hard that the words were cut off as Godfried's teeth closed down onto his tongue.

Gregory was standing, panting in anger, and Godfried was doubling over, cradling his jaw in his hand. Harry took the moment to slip forward and yank Godfried's wand quickly away from his loose fingers, yanking his cloak off a moment later and hitting Godfried with a solid stunning spell.

Malfoy ran forward, looking only a little shaky for having been almost hit by the killing curse. Goyle looked at him, eyes round, and then down at his own fist, as if he was not sure what had happened.

"Draco!" He said, almost mournfully. "What's going on?"

Malfoy ran up to him. When he reached within a foot of Gregory he stopped. If Harry had been in such a situation with Ron or Hermione, he would have thrown his arms around their neck, perhaps, but as it was Malfoy only stopped, and stared back at Goyle, panting for a moment as if struggling to regain his calm.

"It wasn't you," He said. "It wasn't you, Goyle, you idiot. You didn't kill those men. You're uncle-" he cast a spiteful look at Godfried, "Just wanted you to think that. He wanted to take your money."

Goyle looked at Malfoy. It was clear that he didn't understand at all, but at the same time his eyes were large and the shine of panic was dimming. He looked towards his uncle, who was still paralyzed by Harry's spell, and then back towards Draco, and it was as if some of the tension in his body dissipated.

"He tried to kill you," He said.

Malfoy nodded unsteadily. After a pause, he reached forward and clasp Gregory, firmly, on the shoulder.

Harry looked on awkwardly. They all stood, silently, catching their breaths.

"Good," Goyle said, finally. "Good. I didn't want to have killed those men. I thought – only I thought…" he looked at Malfoy. "You know sometimes I forget things."

Malfoy nodded.

"But I didn't have wanted to kill them, because I didn't hate them."

"I know," Malfoy said, quietly.

"I wouldn't have killed them for… being like that." Goyle looked at Malfoy quite steadily. Harry knew that Gregory was very thick, and he didn't think that he was the type to send coded messages. Yet Goyle seemed to be looking at Malfoy very hard. "I don't care about them being that way."

Malfoy drew a long, shuddering breath, and then he sighed. "So you've seen through me," he muttered, so low under his breath that Harry barely heard him. "I think everyone's seen through me, now."

Harry knew exactly what was meant. With so many people in on Malfoy's secret, it was almost inevitable that the information would begin to spread. Looking at Malfoy's rather pinched visage, it was clear that he himself did not want – was not ready – for that to happen. And yet Harry could not help but feel obscurely glad – perhaps because he had, subconsciously, already decided on his own route.

"Come on," He said, brusquely, more to break then tension than for any other reason. He gestured impatiently towards the pensieve. "Let's collect the memories, and get back to the Ministry, and have this man in a holding cell."

Draco and Goyle both looked at him.

"I haven't clearance to apparate within the Auror's office," Goyle said.

Harry nodded. "We'll go just to the foyer, then"

After a moment of uncomfortable searching in Godfried's robe pockets, they found a small vial in which to collect the memories, which he had doubtless prepared for the purpose. Draco gathered the memories up cautiously and then signaled his readiness to go Harry touched Godfried's prone body with one hand – the man's eyes, the only part of him that Harry'd let move, darted back and forth angrily". He saw Malfoy touch Goyle's sleeve, and then he apparated.

The darkness twisted in for a moment, and then he found himself amidst a flash of blinding lights. That, combined with the change from daylight to inner lighting inside of the Ministry, left him blindly blinking for a moment. As his eyes cleared, he realized that a photographer was not a foot away from him, the large bulb directly in his face. Kingsley Shacklebolt, stood, looking only slightly surprised by his entrance, and Rita Skeeter was next to him.

Harry's stomach dropped as Malfoy and Goyle apparated behind him. Not only was the foyer totally full of people visiting the Ministry on their daily business - they might have slipped by with a minimum of fuss – but somehow they had happened to land on top of one of Skeeter's regular stormings of the Ministry. Her present absolutely implied a scene. Indeed, as she turned and saw him, she gave a squeal of almost girlish delight, and came running forward, the poisoned-pen floating hurriedly to keep up behind her.

"Harry Potter!" She said. "You have failed to comment several times on my request for an interview concerning the recent murders of deviant wizards! Are you here today with a suspect in hand!" She looked eagerly from Malfoy to Gregory to the slack-jawed, stunned Godfried, and her eyes narrowed a little and then she positively beamed. "You don't' mean to tell me that you have arrested this pre-eminent member of society on suspicion of the crime?"

Harry had been irritated as soon as he saw Skeeter's green-lizard-coat in the entryway not he felt his face growing red with anger.

"No comment," He growled, pushing by Skeeter and dragging Godfried behind him.

"Auror Potter!" Skeeter called from behind him. A photographer managed to get around to the front somehow, and take a full shot of Harry's face. The light blinded him for a moment, and he dropped Godfried's arm for a moment, covering his eyes with his hand. Skeeter lunged forward like a rabid dog.

Harry felt a large form come between him, as Gregory Goyle placed his solid form directly between Harry and Skeeter. Goyle did not look at him, but Harry caught from the corner of his eye Malfoy's amused smirk. To find himself shielded, as Draco had so often been in school, was a peculiar experience indeed.

"We have proof!" Malfoy called out, with casualness which was almost certainly theatrical, brandishing the memories. Godfried's eyes flashed and he seemed to strain against the binding spell. Every onlooker in the foyer watched with rapt interest. "He attempted to coerce his nephew into taking the blame for him - the evidence is here."

Pandemonium erupted. All those who had been watching the exchanges quietly began to chatter about what they had heard.

"Ladies and Gentleman." With a booming voice, Shacklebolt managed to call everyone's attention, regaining control of the situation that had threatened to descend into chaos. "Auror Potter," he said, "please escort the suspect to Auror's offices, please."

Harry nodded and headed towards the door. Before he could reach it, however, he was arrested by the whispering around him.

"…deviant wizards" – there was uneasy gasping –"is Godfried Goyle going to be arrested for that?"

And then, having gathered her breath for an additional vitriolic attack.

"Auror Potter-" that cloying, false sweetness always left him furious – "do I detect, from your tone a certain degree of _personal_ involvement in this case?"

Harry swung around, and stared her down. Skeeter drew her breath in, but continued. "The victims were both gay wizards, were they not? Is this something that you, yourself, may relate too?"

The room went deathly silent. Harry continued to stare Skeeter down. He waited until he could see the sweat beading at her temples before he spoke. It was unfathomable that he was about to intentionally give Rita Skeeter one of the largest breaks of her career.

He smiled, confidently charming. Just for an instant he caught Malfoy's eye. Draco was very white, nearly shaking.

"Ms. Skeeter," he said. "If you are indeed hinting at my sexual orientation, as I believe you are, I regard this as a private matter that does not, in any way, interfere with my work in this case.

However, as it seems inevitable that it is a topic that will be of general interest, I would like to clearly state that I am, myself, gay. I have only recently become able to make this admission, even to myself."

He paused.

"Regarding the victims, Timothy Wandsworth and Leonard Grindlings, I am grateful for the opportunity to bring their murderer to justice. I believe they were killed because they were seen as easy targets, exiled from and therefore unprotected by mainstream society. "

He hesitated, looked down at his feet, and then looked up again, again, for a moment, straight at Malfoy.

"I have made this public admission in the hope that it can help other gay wizards to find better acceptance."

He stopped, because there seemed nothing else to say. The room was still deathly silent, but he could not read anyone's expression at all – he could not tell if his announcement had been me t with anger, or resistance, or acceptance or incredulity.

He turned again to leave the hall. Perhaps five seconds of silence passed, and then, the voices came, all at once – some calling to ask questions, some talking to one another. He hadn't the energy to listen – in fact, only one voice happened to reach him, and it was quite a random one- some witch with a particularly carrying voice, who turned immediately to her companion and said, "Isn't it romantic how Gregory Goyle was protecting him just then!"

Harry's eyes widened, and he snorted with laughter. All his tension suddenly broken, and he suddenly felt free, even mischievous. He glanced over his shoulder and addressed the witch who had spoken.

"There may be one former Slytherin I'd be interested in dating," he said, giving her a wink. "But rest assured, it isn't Goyle."

Then he left, riding high on the euphoria of the moment.

_Epilogue_

In the aftermath of that incident, he was suspended from the Auror's for a week – no official explanation was given, but Kingsley told him it was because they needed 'time to think'. Harry, understanding that this meant more that Kingsley needed the time to clear things with the Auror's department, had agreed. If Kingsley's eyes were a little harder when he looked at Harry than before, if he were just a bit more awkward when he clasped Harry on the shoulder and called him by his given name, Harry could not say. He was just grateful for the man's imperturbable support.

He was forced to make his home temporarily unplottable, and for several days apparated only between his home, and Ron and Hermione's apartment, in order to avoid the storms of reporters that were, they informed him grimly, camped out around every location he visited even infrequently. Hermione received all the papers, and she kept him updated on part of what was being reported – Harry trusted her to edit out those reports that he might not wish to see for a while. Rita Skeeter's expose was, understandably, the largest and most sensational article _– she_ reported that she had seen in coming for years. The article overall contained approximately equal parts hand-wringing despair over the state of the world (of which Harry Potter was held up as a typical example) and falsely cloying sympathy, complete with oblique references to appropriate magical therapy.

He was an Auror, and used to days of busy activity, so it only required about three quiet evenings playing board games with Ron and Hermione to begin to feel itchy and restless.

That was the mood he was in as he sat on Ron and Hermione's couch one evening, reading a muggle novel he had picked up from the nearby Waterstone's and drinking an irritatingly herbal tea - Hermione had recently switched out all caffeinated beverages in the house for healthier options.

When the tap on the door came, Harry was prepared to ignore it – it wasn't his home, after all, and Ron and Hermione weren't in, and they'd be receiving their fair share of reporters anyway – but something about the sound, which was short and did not repeat itself – lead him to rise from the sofa. He slid the door open a crack. Malfoy stood on the doorstep, looking nonchalant but still somehow managing to insert himself into the opening immediately so that Harry was forced to let him into the living room.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"What do you mean?" Malfoy snapped. He looked around the room, sighed, and removed his coat, holding it out to Harry presumptively. Harry took the coat and hung it on the rack, next to his own. "Where have you been? Why haven't you been at the office?"

Harry looked at him with only the slightest amusement. "I've been suspended," he said. "Didn't they tell you?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed as if he was annoyed. "No. That receptionist of mine only ever told me you were out. She doesn't like me, I think."

Harry nodded slowly. "Sit down," he said."Would you like some tea?"

Malfoy picked Harry's mug from the table and sniffed it suspiciously. "No, thank you," he said, replacing the cup and sinking onto the couch.

Harry grunted in agreement and sat down as well. "I suppose you've heard about the case…" he said.

Malfoy snorted. "Well, Shacklebolt wasn't much more forthcoming than the receptionist, but I did remember that coroner we met at St. Mungo's. I met him, and he explained to me all about the pensieved memories…"

"Yes," Harry said. "It seems that he's developed a few simple techniques that revert the memories to their original form. Whatever Godfried did to them was a little like imagination – he mixed his own real memories of the crime with memories he'd taken from Goyle… er, Gregory. Once Dwindles was able to separate them, there was no chance of him weaseling out of the crime. His trial comes up next week.

Draco nodded. "It's all over, then."

"Yes." Harry paused. "How are you?"

Malfoy shrugged diffidently. "I don't know, really." He looked at Harry. "Astoria came and promised not to say anything, but judging from some of the looks I received at my mother's luncheon yesterday, I'd wager she's probably let it slip to a few people." He paused. "I would have been perfectly happy to continue a double life forever, you know!" He sounded almost angry. "I'm a Slytherin – I'm not like you. A bit of secrecy is the spice of life, and I don't care about helping other people, either." He snorted. "Ridiculous false concept.

Now, my stock will only continue to fall until I address the rumor. I could cover it up, of course – convince Astoria she'd misunderstood me – even get married to prove the point. She's half in love with me, I could convince her." He looked at Harry sideways.

"She's more than half in love with you," Harry admitted. "Everything she's doing or saying now – it might still just be to try and get your attention."

"I know," Draco smiled sardonically. "So, I have an admirer. The question is, Potter, what are you going to do about it?"

It was a delicious feeling to have Draco at his mercy, for, no matter how Malfoy tried to obscure the situation, that was exactly how things were. It was, perhaps, why Harry had chosen to wait a few days before contacting him. Harry smiled and Draco snapped.

"I know what you said in the hall that day." He looked straight at Harry. "Don't try to play games. I've been doing it longer, and I'm better at it." He slid smoothly closer to Harry on the couch, until they were so close that their legs touched. He brought his face very close to Harry, and chucked when he saw Harry's Adam's apple drop in a reflexive gulp. "I can certainly seduce someone with as little experience as you," he said, smoothly, letting his hand come to play gently on Harry's knee.

"Would you like to go out sometime?" Harry blurted.

"Potter, Potter, Potter." Malfoy let his hand stroke a little up and down Harry's leg with each word. "I don't think you fully comprehend yet what I am offering."

"What?"

Malfoy smiled and drew his hand away. Harry missed it.

"Did you see what was in the Prophet this morning?"

Harry shook his head. "Does it matter?"

Malfoy shrugged. He reached into his pocket and removed a small sheet of paper, unfolded it, and passed it to Harry.

"_Letter to the Editor_," it read:

_"I have been unsurprised, but saddened, by the negative backlash against Harry Potter's recent announcement that he is gay. _

_As the mother of a teenage son, I was shocked and hurt to learn, while he was still a student in Hogwarts, that he was interested in other boys and had, in fact, gone so far as to form a relationship of several months with another male student. Had it been a girl, it would have been a great pleasure for me to look on my son's first romance from a distance… as it was, I feared that the road he had started down was one which would surely destroy him, and I did all in my power to change it, even going so far as to force him to leave my home as a last attempt to force a change in his behavior._

_But that was my mistake as a mother, for while I thought that it was his sexuality that would harm him, what caused his death in the end was not that, but rather that I had abandoned him – and not only me, but also his friends, his teachers, his whole community – everyone, in fact, on whom a young person should be able to rely._

_Because of that hatred and fear, my son is no longer alive in this world. And, because of the same emotions, I fear that we as a community are now on the verge of turning against the Boy Who Lived, although no one can deny that we owe him everything. _

_I, for one, support Harry Potter in his decision to live openly as a gay wizard. I pray that my mistake will be avoided by others – for no one deserves what happened to my son._

_Sincerely_

_Margot Wandsworth."_

"She changed her mind," Harry breathed.

"Yes. Although her husband's name isn't anywhere on that letter, you notice – I wonder if they've disagreed."

"It doesn't matter," Harry said. "It means something to me."

"It means something to me, too," Malfoy said. "Not anything trite or emotional, mind. But this was just the first. Since then, all day, I've been talking to people who responded positively to that letter – people who don't agree with the old ideas anymore."

He lifted his hand, and touched Harry's cheek softly. It was a calculated gesture, as nearly all Malfoy's gestures would be, but Harry knew that, and it touched him anyway.

"I've been on the losing side before," Malfoy said, "And I much prefer to be with the winner. And I'm starting to think that you might be able to win this one, too. So."

He looked down, for a moment, he almost seemed shy.

"So," he said. "Yes, Potter, I accept your rather poorly phrased invitation. I would like to 'go out sometime' with you. Specifically, Friday, at El Basilisco. With no privacy charms – in the picture-window in the front of the restaurant, if you like – for the whole world to see."

Malfoy's face as he looked up again was slightly flushed, whether with excitement or fear, Harry couldn't say. Just for a moment, he was like the boy at school again, eyes shining over some terrible trick he had just played or was about to play on Harry.

Harry was ready to let him do it.

He leant forward, bringing his chapped lips close to Malfoy's. The expression in Draco's gray eyes was rather unreadable. Harry kissed him.

It was a soft kiss, meant as a thank-you and as reassurance, and then Harry pulled back, but Draco's hand on his shoulder stopped him. It snaked around to the nape of Harry's neck and pulled him back in. Draco kissed him, and it was so fierce and searching that it was clear then that Draco wanted him, and although Harry had suspected that already, knowing it and _feeling_ it were too different things entirely. He responded without any thought, kissing back, riding on the pleasure of the moment.

Draco's hand moving trailing down his back- Malfoy loved touch, Harry would soon learn: both hard enough to be almost painful, and so light that it was ghostlike. In this case, the slight pressure sent a warm rush straight to his groin. It had never been so intense, with Ginny or anyone else, and he groaned with desire, causing Draco to chuckle, his mouth warm against Harry's.

"Wow," Harry said, when Draco broke away for a moment, resting his shoulder on Harry's shoulder to breath.

Malfoy turned his face slightly and kissed him on the neck.

"Wow," said Ron.

Harry turned with a start. Draco, who had managed almost to crawl half onto Harry's lap, left his forehead on Harry's shoulder and peered over languidly, like a cat.

He had not even heard the door open. Ron and Hermione had returned home from their evening out, and now Ron was staring rather fixedly in the opposite direction. Hermione smiled apologetically. Malfoy glared, as if Ron and Hermione had just been the ones caught necking on _his_ couch.

"You're back," Harry said, awkwardly.

Hermione nodded. Ron coughed, rather pointedly, and Malfoy reluctantly put a foot of space between himself and Harry.

"It's nice to see you, Malfoy," said Ron, very stiffly. The question in his voice was clear.

They all four waited, looking at each other. Finally Malfoy raised himself, gracefully, from the couch.

"I think this is my cue". He looked at Ron and Hermione, and then leant over Harry. "Good night."

"Good night," Harry said. "See you on Friday."

"Friday…." Malfoy waved his wand lazily, drawing over his clock over, and pulled it on. He gave a brief nod to Ron and Hermione, and slipped out the door.

"What," Ron asked, as soon as the door shut, with a voice quickly growing panicky, "What was that?"

Harry didn't have an answer. He merely looked at Hermione and smiled.

Hermione, who had known Harry for so long that she understood everything in his face, caught the expression and beamed back. When Ron saw it too, he quieted.

"I'm not saying anything," Hermione said.

"You don't have to," Harry replied. In that moment, he felt energized, and ready to face the future: in short, he was happy.

***

Author's note: Yay! I'm finally done. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers throughout, I appreciate all of you taking the time to make it to the very end of my story. It was fun for me to write, I hope it was fun to read as well! Hasta pronto ~ zsuzsi


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